To T., whose poems probe the cold

I fear the places I might never reach

In you—where stars encircle arctic capes

Or ice shelves stretch on, winklessly unthawed

Or oceans whirlpool round an unseen God.

But, love, I sink into your easy beach

And stretch where the wisteria tendril drapes

In dappled summer plats around Cape Cod;

I stroll its boardwalks by your side, unshod.

Between the stoic polar ends of earth

Abides this antidote to chilled extremes:

Say, will you stay, for what a season’s worth?

My spirits bathe beneath your gentle beams—

So linger; pause your journeys past the pale;

Kiss your Calypso; let her stash your sail.

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