"In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!"
― James Joyce, Finnegan's Wake

catching my death
it's an English thing
a melody
from tepid heat 
to damp cold
trans-(t)his, sans-(t)hat
means nothing to me
no meno'pause
required
freeze, moan, groan, alone
in this barely-mystic air
like in one of Solz's gulags,
it's a European thing,
every songbird says,
make the wrong sign, 
get so out of line,
 -b + or - sq root of b2–4ac/2b
that's one way to pray
guilt for a best friend,
keep him warm
gravely
stop shivering inside
by all means 
there's worse to come
sans teeth, sans everything