Icebound --

Irate, crestfallen,

the eye

gone wild again, All

that we

See structured in your profile,

bent

toward the Wind, do you

follow

me, then, or is it

some

kind of instant rapture

you seek, grinding

out hours

of hard labor for your love,

your instantaneous

inclination,

your subtle sigh? -- do

you call

me closer

to your spent Spirit, do

you fall,

ready for heaven

and finished

with your

pure ascent, axe-held

and bullet-worn; can

you

see your reflection

in the glass, a

broken promise, the cynosure of

long

avowal, the

pious blessing of the Dead -- have

you bolted

the door

and painted murders

and executions

in light pastels? -- do

you

see a nuanced palette as you

recede, is there

a God in

you Somewhere, ironing

out incisions

and foreclosures, do

you inherit

the Storm

that you have brewed for me, can

you think

of a way

we could have kissed, could

have given

in to hurt infractions

of our laws? -- do

you stand

on the trip-wire and

count backwards

to

your implosion? -- is

there

solace there under the harsh light

where they examine you,

probing your

veins

with sinuous chemicals

concocted

in the lover's lab? -- these

Orphans, cock-

sure

and elegant, are

wise

beyond their years, inclining

toward

a radical Posture

of

supine imagining -- What

can we call

them, they

who follow us with no hope

for

remuneration, they

who

see us clearly, who

know

the knife-skewering irony

of lungfelt

horror

in their bones, their

blood

pulsing through corridors

thick with Moss

and sudden

temptation? -- These

hours revolve, the

days recede, the

girls catch

the boys

in a game

of careworn solitude; there, where

dreams

are formed, calculated, and

dissolved, working

in stretched muscles and surging

minds for

a pure Release -- there

where

We can exclaim with Reason

and not with Wit -- our

wondrous

sparkling on the lake, the

heaving

of young breath

cradled

in the wind -- These sullen

histories

occupy our thoughts with leisure, pursuant

of glory; --

sadness, timbers

burning

in the campfire, All

that we

Sense

in our disparate Conscience -- Cliffs

rise and

fall into the Ocean, the

ice

calves off the

glacial front to disturb

the waves; here, at

the end of time

where we hold fast

to the cold

air and hunger for more, more

meat, more

Essence, here, in

these latitudes

we are

forgotten, We

blend into the distant atmosphere

a being

of pure Sound, our heads

held high

with

a regal purpose, here where

the Wolves run

and

the bear

crests the snowfallen ledge to

acknowledge

our hope, our

surefooted

Arrival, here, in

a Space

devoid of

happenstance there is

the

utmost purity

of Purpose; here we

will

Evolve, in

a new World

crafted

by the artisan's

formal

hands . . .

*