Arctic Delight, we called that lofty, drafty blue cloud
of a bedroom. And took turns warming it—
one poem per night, Rumi, always Rumi.
Candle shadows licking the walls, we read with pet
names and piano fingers, praying Persian heat
would thaw that lozenge of our marriage bed.
Mediterranean wine in new vessels, etc.
And when verse failed us, we used a blow dryer.
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