Fever Ward

Not a room for the waiting or the receiving of the waiting, but a room for a liquid thinking a turgidity that trickles through plastic tubes. Is this where doors remain jammed forever between Hospital floors? Unseen, a wall clock drops heavy packages of time into narrow chutes, latex handprints are shaken from sterilized surfaces. The regularity of beep and whir mechanically sucks light in and out. The yoke recalls it shell. Desiccated fingers squeeze a phantom pain-ball, morphine as cold as ice is delivered to an unknown address. A swish of a starched presence, fingertips retrace scorched fever-lines. Eyes creep toward the voice. Consciousness scratches a self-portrait upon a white neon sun, a hesitant, primitive etching. A nurse adjusts the electronic pulse of a free-floating mind. Space expands under her hands.