The Kentucky campfire spirits
while the cold crept into
and out of
my fridge.

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 cherries

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.