Fever

My body feels hot.
Consciousness walled in by a thick, glubbulous membrane
of feverishness.
Time tries to slip back 
    back on itself.
My body feels cold.
Consciousness is accelerating past the walls
of my imagination.
Derailing.

My arms are made of a heavy ash.

My heart and gut burn
with the oily flare only
capsaicin can hear.

But it is not there.

And I ache to be aware
for a little while
no more.