Fever

the words

are teeth

jagged sharp

bone white

like death

they grind

the delicate

hands of night

bleeding songs

of owls

and foxes

she sleeps

in the empty

eyes of streets

in concentric walls

of solitude

whispering stories

of absent eyes

tossing turning

creating

waves

out of stone

knives

outgrown

with plants

that dream

of melancholy

mangrove afternoons

of saline

love.