the fever has broken--

a wisp of smoke

you and the air you arose with

dispersing--scattering on the breeze---

while the inky contours of the daily world

sharpen and dry--forming hard forms--

the eyes closing on this

to feel in visionless vision the skin

cooling by the touch of that wind--

all awareness of the bodily unity--

all the senses one expression of response--

the wind will not cease--the coolness

and the heat surging and shrinking away

successively --the consciousness of all

these aspects in this breathing moment--

this instant perpetually probing into itself

as process we mistakenly call 'time'--

the eyes open--the light has slightly shifted--

and a relieving weakness begins to quicken

and slow movements of limb tumble like syrup

down a maple tree--and so lifts itself to gaze

out the window at the milky day--and you--

an outline of molecules dancing over a broken fever--

Content (c) 2008-2010 Philip Milito.