who knew poetry mag. could break the awesome barrier?

The summer issue of Poetry magazine is actually quite excellent. This poem, for instance, is like a mouthful of Ghirardelli. Reading it totally turns me on. Is that TMI? Yes; yes it is; but there we are.

A Lock Of Her Hair
by Robert Wrigley

As a hoodoo-voodoo, get-you-back-to-me-tool,
this hank's thankless task is vast,
a head down to the ground impossibility, possibly,
since what I'm thinking of is your toe pad pinknesses too,
your soup hots and round-and-rounds, the fine
and perfect poundage of you on my paws, the very cuase
and problem I moan and bemoan
the absence of. For Love, above the head
this reddish coil once lavishly wore, there's an air so far away
it's sad for me to even think the same sun's rays play
where it was and do to you what I would do
if I were there or you were here. Still, some thrills
remembered do resemble thrills, one hopes, and the ropes
of it that gently fell around me bound me so well
no hell of miles can defile this dream I dream. I mean
the anyway DNA I can find of you. I mean the home
of bones and blood that holds up the whole of you
and which this fizzed-up missive means to conjure, missy,
my world in a curl, girl, this man oh man half man I am
when you're gone.