21

tomorrow drift / as fattened
under glass. Drips

flash of
icicle

whose fiery hairs
for halo

reach into this holy
orb / this air / and circumscribe

one image and one certainty
with blinding light.

/ /

In ice, the welts
of grief-dark bruise

etch lace through places fingers scratch.
Its surfaces protect

the beasts suspended frozen / just beneath.