When my daughter fights on the phone
  with her boyfriend, even her side
of the story unintelligible as my pain �
   
bruised, alto, altering the lit hallway
  between our rooms—I think of the ice house:
pineal, subterranean light,

cave dug in a creek bank among a ganglia
  of ponds, its snug, clapboard dormer
a white-washed domestication

of the wildness within, winter felled
  beneath corbelled ceiling, slabs of ice
sawn from frozen stream and coulee,

tonged onto sledges, hauled & packed
  among straw, sawdust—so that, in the heat
of rage, or age, or passion,

what shivers of sweet sorbet,
  what unlikely shocks of whine-numbing joy
issue from its galaxy, its dipper.

Hammock    

Tantric, this cobwebbed plot,
fish-net snare hung high in goblin air:
 
I'm lost in love, a mazed speck  
of stunned flesh, sun-puzzled, heat-eaten,

freshly wept & sung,
& now meshed above the industrious,

onyx-necklaced ant-hills,
trefoiled clover, bee-gemmed buttercups.
   
Spiders on drugs spin weird
(did I say "lost"?) distracted lairs.  

I don't care what powers catch us
flagrant, in their bed of clews,

ropes, & cords;  the thread
by which Theseus crept his way,
 
now slack, now taut from her labyrinth,
could not show more golden

than these cross-hatched diamonds
burning our scars, our fire, into your barest back.