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"