The Epidemic

An erasure poem. (Ports of the Sun by Eleanor Early, page 35.)

The graves // are a tangle of

Rust and tattered leaves.

There are a gay guests.

"Your Health."

"My Health."

Sounds something like

Possession.

They abandon the place.

The first to die // in horrible agony

Was too much for the rest,

And they // were rather worried.

"You see," he said, "we know what an invasion is like."