Valentine
The deer in the snow turned away
from my flashlight and kettle
to let me fight with the ice alone.
I was thinking of you then,
of your sleeping head,
of your maskless mouth.
I used to think your heart
was like an old waterway
always locking and filling
up, but it’s not just one thing
—it could be this kettle.
It could be the steam
in the dark. The light
bouncing around the branches
at midnight. Mine might be an ancient
furnace.