Fever

In an open field at dusk

To footfalls I awoke

Marching ants across my temples, oh

Their feet had no intention

They followed some magnetic drum

Prisoners of their destination

Prom the slats of the factory come

Where once they did make rails

Old death's peculiar songs

He didn't know I was listening

So he crowed out nice and long

To the spiders and the lumber and the dust

Of his conquests and his hunger, his lust

I heard his feet rejoice

I heard him tap his cane

As if he had his own review

On stage at the Athenaeum

I caught his words with my open mouth

I gagged and choked and spit them out

I heard him turn as he did hear

My tiny heartbeat in his ear

I was already running

I heard him coming

Shrapnel spitting from his wheels

His scything arms rake for my heels

I dove and rolled and hid my face

And I said these magic words:

"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home"

I spoke these magic words and

Fell down, down, the anthill

For days

"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home"

"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home"