Philip Rosenthal  2009 All Rights Reserved


Open the windows, all
the old fevers have come back.
Raise the shade, patina of crepe
and spun cinder.

The fevers are back and your house is not ready.
The fevers are back as if never gone.

The fevers come crowned; come
crumbling as embers, as orange sleeves
burning bark and knobbed branches.

Fever of silt on white plates,
fever of talc that erase the skys saxonblue face.

The fevers are back in flocks,
back as a reign of tangerine flame,
opening and closing, fluent as pulver.

Banners of a burgeoning sway flutter like arson.
Already the mind tilts to matchsticks;
already it shifts into brilliant ignition.

The fevers are back and your house is not ready.
Hang the effigy from the third story window.
The fevers are back.
Tamp the glass from the panes.



Sarah J. Sloat
Copyright 2009  

Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey, and now lives and works in Germany. Her poems have appeared in West Branch, Linebreak, Juked, and Bateau, among other publications. Tilt Press published Sarahs chapbook, In the Voice of a Minor Saint, in January 2009.

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