TWO POEMS
POLARIS
The night my fever broke
I sweat ten dreams of death,
but one dream other woke
my blood: my driven breath
like rainsqualls in my mouth
blew out and swung, force five,
steady from the South.
I dreamed I was alive
the night the weather broke,
the night we lay hove to
against the gale that woke
us into love. Back through
that morning where the mast
whipped, drumming on the hum
of shrouds, I sailed the last
of my delirium.
The night my fever broke
I hung in irons, blown far
off course. I swung and woke,
not to choose a star,
but to be compassed-full
and by-in your sure sight;
our weather turned, the pole–
star like a masthead light.
Philip Booth
Landing
This afternoon I am very careful.
I watch myself. I watch the egg
Unhatched. I am the sight
