Some Storms Go On

Inside your viral fog
you dream of clarity –
some habitable sense –
some softly bright interiority:

the grace of something
you imagine waits for you
beyond that fence –
that blurry line

that you’ve espied ahead
which may define the spine
of some raw incarnation –
indistinct –

but whose propinquity to you –
kinship and proximity –
visually viscerally pulses –
beckoning –

wavering and vacillating –
mere creation
of your cold?
How wrong to call it “cold”

when all is warm in this
encompassingly buffered
swarm of consciousness –
the baby of a low-grade fever –

infantile and craving.
Thunders butt and sigh.
You wonder what and why.
There are those whom you have loved

who are as far away from you as they
were near: which is to say,
unfathomably gone.
Some storms go on.


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