I haven’t

been sick like this

since I was six

or maybe nine

that deceptively mild

hazily pleasant

heartbleating ache

and motherseek fever

that takes you

to that tender place

of breezy white flags

and euphoric yield

and there, you,

the fever-softened six

or nine year old

is inspired to climb

the honeyblonde vines

of a girl’s pigtails

up

and up

and up

into that secret attic

so nourishingly dark

and quiet

where you cloister

in a nook

and allow your fingers

to register the heart’s Braille

by rowing across

the musky, yellow pages

of books

harboring timestained

print

pulsing

like dollops of viscera

and beads of skin

beneath

the ginger marvels

of your touch . . .

And you stay there,

just as you are,

a future child

of no tomorrow,

a purveyor of dark, trembling matter,

and golden drifts of snow,

you stay there,

quiet, happy,

unfinished,

somebody’s ink

bled through

the slow fever

of dream.