Love Letter

Expect thunder
and oysters,
expect rheumatic gloom,
you wistful loving
head-full-of-wool,
you woman of stockings
and womb, may I

might I? Bury my pug
freckled nose in your sweater,
I will be your dolly warm
lipped and with

blue veins a meandering
topography.

And of your
little leather shoes,
eyes of cracking ice,
hay-hair and
round bell cheeks

I wooze and plummet.