The Kentucky campfire spirits
while the cold crept into
and out of
County lines convert to conversation.
Clips later, clicks orbit.
I tap. I send. I ask how they are.
“Some cold” is all the galaxy asks for.
Here, the kitchen cold
done took command:
endless growls within
my fridge. Done
froze my cheeses
the rice-cabbage-radish-mint-chickpea salad
the smoked salmon
the unopened hummus.
Not the ciders, of course.
Or thankfully, the package of abundant bacon.
New territory. Am I installed,
ready to answer the call?
I promised to learn how to turn the cool loose.
I tell the galaxy I am curious:
what’s at the heart of elemental vortexes?
I wonder which is easier to contain:
fires or frigidaires.
At my table, the fridge shut off and quiet,
the temperature tamed but unright and unlucky,
I drank inadvertent iced coffee.