Febrile Night
I awoke
in the febrile night again,
half dazed
from my conviction
of your certainty,
contorted
by the pounding of 4 am,
and still restless
with vestigial sleep.
My sense for rain
laps the water
of vestibular illusion
and I am again in the Venetian
dusk of your warmth.
Somewhere,
between July
and this dense archipelago
I hear the whisper of November,
it is the chilled first day,
shared with menses
and candle shadow.
It is all seasons
and every brush stroke of memory,
it is the in-escapable,
visual artefact,
of you.
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