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A Cold MAG
The sick sleep with a mouth open wide
enough to insert the trunk of a growing tree Roots
spread out thicken and Wrap like ribbons
around brain coils, nerves
crying out little vowels in the shape of sound waves
in the shape of sniffles
Emerging like an operatic solo as the pine Grips
the lungs finally Rooted in something warm
out of the cold the birds radiate
cardinals Explore their new home
fly though pockets of alveoli enclose their eggs in capillaries
bees come out of hiding
buzz in the Echo of a struggling voice which rasps exorbitant coughs
pleads to stay home
pleads to be rid of this growth inside him
Pleads to quiet the small chirps and organ displacement
this also is how love works.
When we are given time to think
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