Slightly Feverish

Gray Spanish curtains
hanging,
familiar and so unfamiliar
dead, silvery shields
keeping me a secret
from the moon
as
parasitic, purple hues
infest
untidy, dry
undergarments
from an
abandoned
clothes line.

Funeral black rings
around pale eyelids-
beautiful and odd-looking,
feeling
contemplative, passionate
and
disagreeable.

Clammy hands
can feel a
peculiarly textured
moth eaten hole
within warn pockets;
eerie
dreadful, scented
candles burn
as I blink in anger
because secrets
become a muffled memory-

and not even the
thickest of spiritual
prayers
can make
those gross
hushed whispers
disappear.