To Her Boyfriend, on Going to Morning Yoga

An Aubade.

Tell me not (Sweet) that I am frigid
That from the paradise
Of thy broad chest and thy rigid
—, I go to exercise.

True: a new mistress tortures me,
A yogini chanting Om;
And my legs press, instead of thee,
A block of senseless foam.

And yet this coldness actually
Made you desire this —
More than if, counterfactually,
I had skipped yoga class.