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
The old mare in full tack has followed me to a desert. With that dream again. Of rooms peeling, concealed. An oak-mold odor of
The last fifteen years of my life lie heaped up, ready to be trucked out of this house. My bookcase stands empty. My closet
— after Sharon Olds It’s winter, which is when I wait, watch you all layered and lovely, growing such a thick coat down