Far into fever, attached by cords to the soft-
clicking machines, he sleeps
in a bed in a room not his own.
People enter and pass like ghost-blown
fogs. He is a slow walk
with limbs that recently gave way.
He is part of the blue snowfall.

And what did you see, sequoia-quiet, looking out at black 
night. No islands, no kings or corridors of fury. 
But the districts where we were born, a few icy stars,