Dorothy

With the world in a spin 
of glittering armies and reeling cities
our vortex was a domestic thing.

Married to the poet in my head 
and the daily round, a slow whirlpool
of frost-glittered sheep 
and reeling daffodils,
sleeping and waking
walking and watching,
and the endless swirl of sky 
over our heads,  
I was the valve of history
and transept of nature,
and it all moved through me
into the throats of poets.

High quivering leaves and crying seas ,
through the trance of my wild eyes,
began to rhyme
and take on the age's voice
on the tongues of my beloved company.

The ring that he gave me
went to my grave.
They'd have to cut off my fingers
to unmarry me from my mouth.