"Wading neck deep in a swamp, your revolver is neither use nor ornament until you have had time to clean it" Mary H. Kingsley (1897)

Fevered Forms


Fever: my pores weep.

Gentle staff, they comfort me.

I blow hot and cold.



Shapes form, wax then wane.

Thoughts trapped in endless haiku.

Kind hands wipe my brow.



Rigor and pain melt.

Mind at last released from verse.

Shiva’s dance transformed.




3 responses

  1. Lucille

    Poor Jof. Glad you are on the mend. I hope I don’t catch it.

    July 7, 2010 at 4:39 pm

    • It was just a monsoon virus. You’ll be fine if the weather holds!

      July 7, 2010 at 5:05 pm

  2. JGP

    Sorry to hear you’ve been ill. Did it last long?
    Love the wedding video!

    July 9, 2010 at 12:36 am

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