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. ![](../../images/bug_print.gif)
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