There you are. I’ve been walking north for several years hoping you would find

me. I’m sure you needed to feel cooler,
I know I did. I felt a lump under the left book stack and no way to shake loose the

coins on my wrists. Anyhow,
I needed to slow things down. Reading had begun to feel like teeth clamping on a

rod before the shock comes:
I know you’ve heard there are animals that die this way, thinking they have found

a great title,
Reaching across the wire only to have a tail land and zap. The heat is intense

today though you wouldn’t know it from
The sky, such moody clouds, the babies running through the 19th century

singing fâché, joyeux, triste, stopping
Only when conflicting desires trip them up. You know the day will have its

corners, that’s what I love about you
Mr. Ashbery. I often think the Arctic is like sex. You see how long it’s been? Tell

me, can you see the Crimea from the cusp of your poem?