After Fever
Under his bush,
invisibly, the grouse
folds his wings, won't flush;
in a week, hoppers
have taken over the grass,
as if they'd waited for
my eyes to turn away.
My step, tentative, still
springs them into flight,
crazy, sideways, light
bodies flung toward
they can't know what
fortune of leaf or flower,
water or pavement's disaster.
They take their chance
as I do, too soon
climbing blue spectacle,
a perfect breeze, out
of body's consumption. How
invisible well-being, worn
like lightest cloth
the wind moves, sheer
exhiliration, over
skin, the world alight
as I come back to it—
how pain is felt
as presence, not the slipping
away from one's own—
the terrible body's weight,
its knowledge, burning out.
Katharine Coles
