Fever

Is this what writers do?

Conjure the worst then set you there, contorting

to listen for the beauty that sings in suffering?

Your boiling body fights, trembling

and next to you in darkness, brooding

I see the struggling and the worst

and imagine  your beauty

As a memory that enters a room

full of mourners-

sunlit breeze captured 

in billowing fabric

which turning and holding 

you there for a moment

lets you go

as the tears and chatter 

go on

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