sharp tilted distraction

lives in illness’ wake

marring the peace of night rest

delivering fever dreams

of the oddest sort

the lost arrive bedside

the current lean wildly

to the far left of any

of reality’s norms…

parting last night’s bedside curtain

the light propped a moon sliver

atop mid branch of the owl’s tall pine

i uncorked its milky tip

lifted  parched, cracked lips to its corners

and drank in a poison

of undeserved redemption

in a prayer for wellness

i laughed

still begging in the night

for a pagan curse

to release this brew of sick