Congress of ill health.
Where some sinuses convene
to wreak a death inside the face.
And real lethargy. The likes
of which strum kitten death
on the harpsichord heartstrings
buried in your Marfan chest.
See that you can lift —Stop.
You are not the derisive object
of this poem, I am. With some good luck
the amalgam of these symptoms
will prove useful through brute force.
Sometime in the future, if not
before
I expire.
