Analysis of Cough-In Nail

Light was long, the armchair and I,

Jules, heaped on the sofa.
         The sunlight still.

I shook until my bones reminded me,
        It was too cold.
Blanket.
     Blanket.
            Blanket.

Boiling in the wretch of the sun.

Crawling blood, discarding my precious luminous red, into the bowl of a blue sink,

again. again. again. again.

Penicillin, for without you, much like a Victorian youth, I would have choked once more, maybe a week longer

and wilted into phantasms, of a cruel repute of disease and ills.

What would I have done in March?