Can't shake of this bug: sure these last two poems are products of fever.
I Dreamed all Day
Clouds were embers in the morning sky.
The sun swooped like a bird
behind the tree line
on a land green as eels.
Against all prevailing inclinations
I was blown south
to a place with many people:
each step of mine broke
on their small smiles.
Night fell after that, like a drunk,
down through all the compass depths.
Only in the dark,
lights hung like silver. I stopped
the bus driver then, to make sure
your eyes were aboard.