Asymptomatic

A Poem

Sick doesn’t just vanish a bit of dust that slips out the back edge of the drawer tilted on an axis doesn’t reveal it any different These are the goggles of a beer-less night that stings the throat with old pangs of desire Brushing myself with my hands a pleading motion or surrendered already The stacking of cards hopelessly sane and taking on the identity of numbers with shapes that cannot be given up on That’s a tired iron you think is looking at you from the inside wall of the other room so you know these parallels don’t happen if you’re not already there The dialogues of romance renditions of coughs and sneezes the running of the mouth in a cacophonic exhaustion Tripping on the side of the bed brought low by the pillow the screaming of the lack of symptoms doesn’t yet mean you’re well

J.D. Harms 2020