Fever

the moon can’t cool

a scum-mucked swimming

pool, or breeze

emerge to lift the frowsy

ruff of owls too hot

to hoot, (the mouse and brown

barn rat astute

enough to know to drop

and dash) while

on the bunched up,

corkscrewed sheets of cots

and slumped brass beds,

the fitful twist

and kink and plead to dream

a dream of air

as bitter cruel as winter

gale that scrapes and blows

and gusts the grate

to luff

the whitened ashes from the coal.