After Francis Ponge’s "Stoves"
In the winter, these stoves tick open their blue flames
oneby one. Easy
as ice, falling in points: a kind
Suppose you study my icicled awnings & think,
O, sad trajectory of this human, human heart.
Suppose you wrap yourself in my afghan
& wish for common fireplaces.
Suppose we make soup with kale & potatoes,
feign shock at the crisp interior of roots,
their staggering bitterness.
Suppose we let our homes decay,
become Everglade. We move to Florida,
observe the disintegration of nests.
Some days I give my fingerprints away
in lumps of sourdough bread.
On others, I stand on the shore & watch
the ocean gallop into a bucket—
child’s play, all this.
Suppose the swamp creatures make you truly happy.
Suppose I pin a red seahorse to my dress,
& you cup your ear to its roar.