Stan Sanvel Rubin Apostate

Waking from fever doesn’t give

the truth of what fever was,

reaching for you with weird hands,

wrapping you to its chest

the way a lover wraps

someone so tight the difference

between love and hate disappears,

the way scarlet peels from certain sunsets,

leaving only spent sun.

Nights of burning, days

of trance waiting for night.

What’s left is aftermath, a cooling

where there was burning, the knowledge

that steamed through you

no longer needs you, so that

the only emotion is indifference

––the way a forest stripped

by a five-day fire lies waiting

for the next rampage, the new intruders––


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