Staying in Bed
Crushed under covers,
mounds of pillows supporting my head,
I spent the next few days
Ghosts glimmered with hallucinatory colors as
they wandered the corridors of my mind.
I vowed I would describe
every image, but I could not lift my arm.
Instead I imagined a voice recorder
inside my head, taking every dream
onto a narrow ribbon of black, shining tape.
When the fever broke and fell apart
in beads of sweat,
the voice recorder broke too.
Its shining tape spooled into an inky puddle around me.
Then I could
lift my arm