Flaneur de Flu

Wandering past shapes of criminal health,
dragging nets of wishes that I were well,
crusted with the phlegm of lawful wealth
and bent to the search for a form to swell
into a song the shade of an organ's bruise,
falling into the pace of given-up poets,
or soon-to-be-given-up to the panel's ruse,
finding no solace above or below it,
but smack between these acetaminophen
eyes, my sight is recused, all moisture
wrung, the bed-locked hour taunts again
with aches, with specters bobbing together.
In some far-off love I may stand accused
of harboring all this pain I have refused.