Letter from the Ice Field, October

The dream was bright, but small.

My body was inside out,

a sick elegy to its beauty.

I walked until I found a single tree.

You were picking its apples

in the straw-light in a straw hat,

handed me one without spots.

Put this where your heart rots, you said

and I did, I was happy.

When I woke, the ice

was rocking, unaware, a cold

breathing cast from a body—

You gave much.

Thank you for

the last good thing.