My husband instructed me,
As I brought him his third Uncrustable.
“It feels like a frozen moor.”
It did. You really are a poet,
He said. Jami had been reading
To me earlier from The Waves,
And I misheard one line as
The senses have wind.
They did. Immediately I saw
It all: white manes and horses
Switching their sight from eye
To eye as they high-stepped
Across the horizon. Breezes
Move in the senses, and mistrals,
The breath blows so cold
That nothing can grow,
And you freeze in each green
Blade of grass. Peter the Pervert
Believed we had started talking
About the page too much.
I’m actually a really famous rapper,
He told me, heated, handsome,
And he was, in Hungary.
In retrospect I agree.
It began, maybe, with The blood
Jet is poetry. Typewriters
Were good, they kept us
Concrete, but now in our
Pure fields of whiteout
It is impossible to leave
A mistake—though that’s
What poetry is in the first place,
A land where the senses
Can bend. We are going
Into summer. Rita Dove
Is on the dance floor.
My husband squeezes
His third Uncrustable—
“It really does feel like
A moor.” His breath melting
The cold dimension where
We cannot do it any longer.