Michael recites my love poem,

on his way to dog sledding

on the Iron Range -

last time it was from a helicopter,

before jumping into sky.

I sit silent on the sofa.

His sweet, strong voice

I would eat if I could,

clear, through the phone.

I tell him so, in the accent

of the Transylvania Count, 

"I want to eat your voice."

he laughs, then says,
"and I have eaten your poetry.
Many times. This poem is mine."
In the space between us I hear
swishing of wind shield wipers
clearing away snow.