My years:
a furrow cleaved by a boat
over which the lake heals
over which the ice re-forms,
a contrail streaking
and dissolving like a thought
on the tongue’s brink.
I tremble—a drop of water
on the tip of an icicle,
my belly swelling,
I cannot keep my shape.
I will be sublimated to vapor.
Not enough:
pebbles at the empty grave,
at the columbarium,
fleeting reminiscences
in the minds of those still themselves—
speeding and cleaving—
brief condensations
like frost smoke rising
over black holes
in a frozen sea.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 1.
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