Mauve apple-
cheeked winter
muse, still-
dim little
patron of my
bluewhite particle
physicist's imagination—if you care
at all,
then listen
well to me
here—and respond,
in good
old-fashioned
American, si'l vous plaît;
at this
stage—in particular,
is there really any specific
rocket's
red glare temperature?—or rather
is it
just all that—sort of
nonspecific
chilly early light
that I truly
ought—to fritter
away my kitchen
counter cream
and sugar—
splitting
hairs over?
