The lake blooms with gasoline seams,
flames catch on islands of lard and lint.
The art of this place disintegrates, microfungi
take over our limbs, our obligations.
Contamination like breathing,
pinches our nerves, unbidden.
Passenger, new growth, infection.
Let in the air, please,
indoors becomes intoxicating.
Spores suffocate the familiar world.
Clinging to ceiling fans, attracted to light.
Rooms spin at neuralgic speeds.
Hands slip in punch bowls,
broken glass slicing an open palm.
Stumble through brimming corridors and
crowded hospital waiting rooms,
through uneven stitches to staunch the bleeding.
Through beds, behind closed doors, calling out for anyone.
A warning passes through message boards,
sidewalk chalk, graffiti on homes.
Whispered by those, fearing it is already too late.
A last request, please,

stay outside.