Influenza Ode (From a Very Tall Building)

From here, the farthest highway    slammed with carsarrives to the eye in segments    slicing through the baffling clouds,shiny as the bite of a memory    of being yelled at, a call to the kitchenfor a late-night admonition,    while the dirty river to the harbordries like mustard upon the evening meat.    The worser I feel, the childer I am.Beyond the window, I can see    how the moody wind manipulates,the splat of the springtime    jumbled in some illegible smatter,while the rooftops pretend to organize—    a scripture of rooftops,dishes and antennae—and jumbled,    over-heated gardens snarl in disuse.From this far away the occasional bird    blackens in silhouette, little rabbi.From this far away a rabbinate of birds    swoops above the alleys below,a gulp of swallows.    The trees evangelize the season,the light clear as sick soup.    The sky’s a laryngitis.Shiver me in your arms, my fever—    my life untied, a hospital gown.