Letter to His Fellow Mendicants
Letter to his fellow mendicants
Speckled indigo fields of mist move across old, rounded hills at dusk. It's been another solid week of rain. I can't seem to feel my hands anymore; I lost my feet to the flood last month. They drifted south with my yellow boots. Now, mold grows in my lungs, and I have coughed pink onto the linens, spat green in the shower. The air is pixelated with spores; you can see parasites everywhere, waiting to sink their roots in. Is this my hair I am sleeping on, this sackcloth, or the fronds of fungi? Has my skin become so scraped down, so melted, that even a lover's touch leaves raw welts? I can't see the light fade anymore. I have to take my pills again.
even at dusk, dusk
gathers and blinds this old crow—