I love the globe.   I love you, July.        
I love pretending everyone is my husband.

There is a whole world in this planet
and everywhere men and women

and children’s stories and blood sausage.
There is my perfect handprint in the snow

there now and gone.
There are songs I sing to my husbands.        

I love the industrial revolution,       
swimmers and their bodies        

ghost towns and a gorge.
It’s all tickety-boo.