Underneath the rag quilt and radio static,
the power intermittent,
fever pins its broadsheet to the brain.
Outside, pine branch flags signal,
the wind signals             : COME AHEAD
And from that space between one dream
and then another, the life he’s out of
–the station cuts back in. A song. It goes Low candle ,
goes Ship out farther in the ocean than the farthest ship I see.

•

In the song that keeps the boulder
from the cliff-edge; in the past and perfect
tense; in the color that would seize
the searching eye and tell it of his whereabouts; and in
that quick breath, the quarter-note before it starts…
In all movement, the seed of violence,
the slow oak’s improbable care:
in the gasp that rattles the catches of the gate;
in the side-yard of the plot;
in the updraft and downbeat of the storm.
The flex that shutters at the picture, that turns.

•

The picture on the wall was a picture of the ocean,
a chip in the glass, storm lumbering in.
He took the ocean down,
wrapped it in a towel. He laid it in a box
and thought about sand;
how the ocean meets its end
spinning in the shallows. Sand, saltwater.
His fever spiked. He wrapped a towel around his neck.
All night, pulled by the moon.

•

Moon in the clouds; red in the leaves; a fever;
tear in the vessel; gap in the song
–to rest; breath in the silence …
Heat to the song; rhythm to the color;
gap in the leaves. In the song, a breath.
Red in the silence; gap in the vessel.
Fever in the breath.

•

The fever of the storm of the season catches in his skin.
Mercury creeps beneath his tongue.
Fishermen squint for birds, steer boats to where birds feed.
Names click like slides through a projector.
Milkweed, Wellfleet, Joseph Lister.
It’s a long list of ills. Print legibly.
Count backwards from ten.

•

Number, number, number, number, in, out, in . . .
The plate his name is etched on stares from the corner,
a thunderbolt marks its place in his attention.
The elements glare, going impossibly nowhere:
ink, imprint, clamshell, lead. They, unlike the minutes
are indelible–A hiss, black wash.
Atmosphere, altitude, blink, blink . . .

•

And up is where it begins, and down here is the rain,
chiseled shards shed from the material, mist remnants.
An eye moves in on him,
faceless sweat chills him in the sheets.
Its grasp dampens the hour. Pink blisters
bubble on his neck.
The stereo flower drops its lace. New earth, first snow
before frost dusts the bed that lines the plot.
Fever sweetens its bow.

•

Pedal tone: the steel-wound strings of winter’s earthy bass
done-over. It goes a minor second, then a perfect fourth?
Goes 8:35 and freezing rain? So many winters
and the cold shocks still.
Goes this and worse from now on?