Celibacy 1

Unmarried, the heart ejaculates
what it must, scarlet-purled, arterial,

away, away. Or conversely, married,
it requires all—venous, freighted with waste.

Fuck the heart. On the radio,
driving home, I learn the Brits

are into all things Scandinavian.
Sunlit schools, bare breasts, the Aurora Borealis.

A “scandi trance.” Maybe. Ice is a mystery
of whatever blue enchantment swiped

my view this morning. This is no allegory.
I’m north of myself these days

with a fist full of silver keys
I lose every night in my dreams.