On a stone wall, no one around            I stole my mom’s mink stole
               I stare the doe in the face            self-reflection in a lap pool

                  March, my month, cold            I want this to be the last awful
                        cake white on white            of winter

             my mother sends daffodils            in an open courtyard
            that are chives unblooming            I wait for Jane Kenyon—

              thunder over the meadow            we hide how much we love
             will you allow yourself this            so as to appear merely happy

Old Style Russian, March 19, 1805             I am like a railroad tycoon
    Lise dies, Prince Nikolay is born             with a stack in my hands

           How you felt in 6 PM sun—             my hood
                                      somewhere             makes the view a circle

                              how remarkable             the green isn’t lurid it’s just
          if she and her dog were near             mossy

  would I ever, if not now, be ready             for her visit

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