Fever

In an open field at dusk
To footfalls I awoke
Marching ants across my temples, oh
Their feet had no intention
They followed some magnetic drum
Prisoners of their destination

From the slats of the factory come
Where once they did make rails
Old Death's peculiar songs
He didn't know I was listening

So he crowed out nice and long
To the spiders and the lumber
And the dust of his conquests
And his hunger, and his lust

I heard his feet rejoice
I heard him tap his cane
As if he had his own revue
Onstage at the Athenaeum

I caught his words in my open mouth
I gagged and choked and spit them out
I heard him turn as he did hear
My tiny heartbeat in his ear
I was already running
Oh, I heard him coming

Shrapnel spitting from his wheels
His scything arms rake for my heels
I dove and rolled and hid my face
And I said these magic words

"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home."

I said these magic words
And fell down, down, the anthill for days

"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home."
"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home"