Sailing always against the prevailing you have come to the fever chart's red archipelagoes, that low country where rivers mourn the memory of a sky. Daily friends bring you green turtle shells from the Cape Verde Islands, Peruvian lilies, the leper stone that appears in the ocean when Venus is on the Western horizon, miraculous cures of the Virgin of Snows. Floating on eggshells you hear the lady electricians in their skirts of wind, of rain whispering as they pass by, Scissors . . . Knives . . . At the icy interior of your fear an angry mole, blind pioneer burrows upward cell by cell toward shivering spires, steeples of starlight. What is illness, then? A heavenly mode of locomotion? This melody that has its teeth in you? The dark side of how the stars shine? Ah, you are tired of your mind, the "here" that is always "elsewhere," & as shockwaves break against the pure impossibility of this loss, the rock of the body, you know the wall is real & reality the final illusion. Waking now to fever, chills, fog in your bones, the first bird singing on the pale branch of morning, light is too painful. Close your eyes. You feel the buried thunder of the pulse, whole worlds suspended in a honeyed drop, the unbearable weight of the bee on the blossom, & on the blank tablet write in a hand not quite your own "Forge . . . Forgetfulness . . ." as though this were the only life there is.