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"