Unmarried, the heart ejaculates
what it must, scarlet-purled, arterial,
away, away. Or conversely, married,
it requires all—venous, freighted with wastes.
Here the analogy breaks down.
On the radio, I learn the Brits
are into all things Scandinavian.
Sun-lit schools, bare breasts, the aurora borealis.
A “scandy trance.” Maybe. Ice is a mystery
of whatever blue enchantment swiped
my view this morning. This is no allegory.
I’m north of myself these days
with a fist full of silver keys
I lose every night in my dreams.