Sickly white

is the sky

‘hind the tree,

naked

from Christmas death.

Sickly white

is the yogurt

that chokes —

literally, I almost died.

Don’t laugh guys.

¿Is it my vice

for trying to spice it

with autumn apple crust,

producing only dust?

Sickly white

is my pale skin

preoccupied

by the germs o’ winter wind,

after the sickly mellow yellow

o’ bellowing violent vomit

from seasons passed on.

Sickly white,

I stare @ thee in sleepless analgia.

¿Why do I hold you with such nostalgia?

It already feels like January…

<A fruitful month,

sheltered from

the distracting sunlight>.

No.

January is dead to me.

<The dead is dead to you,

so let it be>.

Anyway, it already feels like spring:

stung by the sun,

a weak gasp o’ gusts

surrounds rose fever

o’ toxic coughs

that no drops can cool.

For in this heaven-white bed

a world turns,

half in shivers & half in burns.

Achoo.