The deep sighs of fall send chills across the daisies. My compass is sick and there’s a sense of urgency in my eyelashes, feeling around for the blisters on my skin searching for a bed to sleep.
Facets of sleep encourage the rain to fall, cold weather raising capillaries under my skin. I wrote the history of the Holocene era on daisies, microscope lenses tickling my eyelashes; dim lighting makes me home sick.
My mind is sick, I dream of oceans in my sleep, medicine labels printed on my eyelashes pill bottles coloured like fall. Tattoos of purple fringed daisies cover my shoulders like skin.
Teeth full of apple skin; asking God how not to be sick, wondering if a sacrifice of daisies will get my blood to sleep. My hair is like the leaves during fall; I hope I get to keep my eyelashes.
There’s snow in my eyelashes, landscapes of frost form on skin the cold air begins to fall, I decide to call in sick preferring to hide in a hot sleep until my breaths sprout purple daisies.
How to grow Gerber daisies, without losing my eyelashes? My fingernails are full of sleep, hot tea grasps at my paper skin. The panacea for the sick is a perfect concentration of wool sweaters and fall.
You eat daisies in the fever of fall. Through my eyelashes I am morally sick, but yesterday I finally let sleep settle into my skin.