Our guests had gone home, hours ago.
Dishes done, drying on the rack,
you lounged in one of our old chairs, 
reading God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.
A lamp hung a lemon umbrella above you.
Across the room, I sunk into Robert Lowell,
interrupting you all the time
to read out loud verses that stung me.
Rimsky-Korsakoff met
the rustle of summer at our window.
It was one, two, three, four a.m….
You started to say something.
If there was one thing more
in the world worth living for,
I didn’t know it.

That Critical Summer, 1975

we wait for snow at a barn dance
brave men on some god-forsaken bridge

we wait for snow where a gas jockey pumps
a stream of pink horses into infinity, 1920