Scraping off our cars
she tells me a dream about love
with a long gestation period.
No sooner are the windows clear
than they ice up again.
As my hood fringe whitens
I launch into “Ramparts”
in James Wright’s gravelly voice,
forgetting the best lines
but not too late to remember them
and tack them on
and feel my chagrin melting
under winter’s swift white wings.
We get a handle on the elements
and go on our way defrosted,
each peering ahead through the radiance
of hearts on fire
of snow too deep for words.