F. DANIEL RZICZNEK

During Fever

Caustic wisp of malaria
            like woodsmoke near the nose,

tumult of decisive blood
            en route from twinkling docks,

a pressing of your figure
            like a handle into the earth.

Landscape remains portable,
            the hills rise into your temples.

Leafy coils roll south
            under black vaults of storm

soaking your rage,
            fading your lids a gradual suede.

The trees jitter above you:
            pin oak, pine, litany of maples.

Roaring sun, imploding roar:
            death like death only. 

   Contributor's notes
   Outside the Horse

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