It’s very cold in the poem. All I have is the rhythm of my legs—spondaic—with an italic of gimp. And some mud. God might
Each year in February, sometimes in December, the trees are infected with parasitic icicles, the sky is painted a weatherproofed grey; and it is
Arriving to live six weeks in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, after living a year in Massachusetts, I came bearing all eleven volumes of