cabbage
ma petite chou
first in the boiling tub your flagpole arm elbow locked dangling paperbacked tome between your eyes and the driftless ceiling cloud and then still naked swaying your hissing lobster shell before the hissing iron stove the novel book perfectly resting on its spine because you are half of the way through on the table that skims the windowsill soft glow snow masses transferring to the paper while everything else has gone blue gray because it is five o'clock
