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A three-part poem about having a cold


                Don’t tell anyone. Just regret each moment, each turn

                to the other side and breathe reluctantly through

                your mouth and wait.

                There is a heat that takes its time, almost as much

                as getting to sleep, before it stakes full claim.

                Once there, it’s like tar. Thick, non-cha...

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The harking of my illness throat,

Another hole, A sunken boat,

You cannot cure the lamb from slaughter,

So keep it’s head held underwater.

The sniffing comes with such a bug,

Cut it down, the trees are blood,

You cannot clear this woodland path,

Not at all, not even half.

The guilt arrives and joins the others,

Sniffing and Harking, pain-crossed lovers,


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