To my eyes, dark and dreary, still under

the sedative spell of Cetirizine, the shadow

of the stove flames on the yellow wall rose

like the flowing mane of a galloping horse

charging closer and closer, the stony heaven

of his little hooves breaking tender over

my chest, the oximeter giving away my rapid

palpitations as if I was cycling on the rippling

red pastures of my heart itself, my eyes fixated

on a cloud in the distance and a bird passed it

before both disappeared into each other and I

didn’t. That was possibly the moment I fainted,

the tea frothing over the saucepan, the kitchen

epileptic to my relinquishing consciousness, one

shared dream of heat and light. To lose track

of time is almost always the goal in most of my

endeavors. In the hospital, sipping ORS Tetra Paks

all afternoon long, I realized with a little pride—

to fail this way and feel the tonnage of relief I did

is to say that we are always carrying some kind

of success with us like old change in our pockets,

the coins making music when the pants are flung

hard into the high tides of the washing machine.