“The snow falls in cartoonish heaps, and I think blurrily of how forms are destiny: how the rain is destined for its torrents and the snow for its drifts, and the poems for their sheafs and me for the poems. Something seizes me and I break into a sudden run down the silent street. “I am fast,” I always insist to my husband, lying motionless and stubborn in the middle of the bed. “I used to be so fast, until I grew up and got boobs.” He never believes me, but look now, I am fast again; I’m running in between the snowflakes. The unrepeating”