Your virus supports
The frame on which it preys.
I have a heart full of tricks,
Of safes that open at the nudge
Of your hard-pressed ear.
I receive no wages for enduring you
Though every now and then my mind
Goes up in flames braving
Your funereal breath and the refuse
Of its own failings.
When you die I’ll throw a party
Like none hitherto witnessed.
Your portrait a chameleon,
A constellation of pitiless courts
Dead center like a sulking deity.
Later I’ll weep, the pus
Of these troubled wounds
Leaking riotously over your effigy.
The moment your eyes close
Mine will again open
Full as they might be.