To a Young Love.

I am doing well here in England, and beginning my third paper, starting to research. So naturally I procrastinated and wrote a poem instead, sitting in Blackwell's, reading Andersen fairy tales and Marvell's poems. This one's title is based off of a T. Roethke title "To a Young Wife". But overall bears little resemblance to.


That you are is
sky
and wheat fields
a vast expanse of possibility,
uncertainty, the probability
of crashing is high

Sunday night the lights dim
in the cathedral;
the only sounds are of restless feet
shuffling, voices of the two high tenors
twist upward
and your dark breath
melting into my chest, onto my neck.

They tell me they don't wear seat belts
or helmets in the country
so there are a lot of damaged skulls,
casts
and splints
on farmers, their sheep dogs, on farmers' wives
and their children.