Robert Arthur Reeves
I look out the window onto a ground dressed with sun,
poor shreds of undistinguished trees, here and there
sharp glass flashing, dirty raccoons shoving by
more often than should be likely here downtown,
on their way to cloudy mysteries. It’s night though
and something in me refuses to see the outside
reduced to colorless bone of itself, in bully glare
from the still lot behind the link fence. Something?
I know what the something is: fever, mirroring sun,
collecting it in my cheekbones and nose, a red cross.
Is it the coming of that fever? Today’s been a week
since I left the building, pushed the button to cross
the street, afterwards may have touched my face.
I doubt it—more probably some minor flush of stress,
momentary, unthreatening. I cling to probability
like a religion, lighting one mind candle after another
till the night is a burning church. Till it’s the day.
Robert Arthur Reeves is a retired philosophy and religion instructor and poet living in Bremerton, Washington.