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Show LYNNE WHITE, LYNNE BLUE I. I read A Farewell to Arms ten times that summer-distinct to boredom's glum routine-and when I taught i t , s t i ll I had i t deep across a grown-sour outlook a time before had sent a harmless woman sprawling for a knife-I practiced solitude methodically, like tossing cards. I read and wrote by habit,-then began: her fresh hair loomed outside my class; eavesdropped my lectures; and flung a hundred glances sunning through... and then she'd disappear. Hardly inured, I walked home fraught with themes. I I . In a looping Iowa City freeze, bombastic and mad for attention, I, entrenched, listened singly to the daily n i g h t f a l l ' s fall. Poetry rarely mattered less- u n t i l , as well half-tight, the phone exhaled: I've seen you round. I walked the two miles there in 10 below. I stumbled through my words. Her eyes s l id like a hawk. They unsettled me. And then we mingled, wound, and rocked softly, kelp-limbed. And once, near dawn, I roused to moon-shocked skin so white, like Peeping Tom I went blind staring. |