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Fever
February 8, 2013
Inside my stomach,
A tribe of small men
Push small boulders
Against the red side
Of my skin.
It isn't their fault,
Never was.
We all have to
Squeeze our bullets out
Somehow.
The bulls-eye knows.
So does the trigger.
It pulls at them both,
Around midnight,
When the light
Has nowhere to go,
Except
Inside
The moon.
© Michael H.,Milford, CT
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