Cold Truths

Vernon Frazer & Michelle Greenblatt

 

 

Random shifters drift

 

                              a measured rubric

 

                      easing phantoms for

 

                             alcoves dank with mold

 

                                   a rubric dried in snow

 

                                       precious, precious, where it may

 

                                         drop, an angel's hand to

 

                                            hold it. Stagnant though those

 

 

                                               leaves may be, the crystals

 

 

                                                      swollen in their palms

 

                                                shatter, to bleed new ice

 

                                          in the cold.

 

                                                      A frontage road heaves

 

                                              under the frost's natal torment

 

          where I stand, thunderstruck,

                                             at the thought of your distance,

          at the thought of your going. And

                                                  when I reach my hands out,

          they smash through a smoky

                                                  window, they grasp at dry

         ice that paves shadows with

                                                  cold

 

crystals of complexity,

                            each nuance unrepeatable,

 

snow

flaking a different mind,

                             I anticipate a memory

 

of each

               pang

                                                                       so

                               as

                                               distinctly

 

                               calibrated                              felt

close as bones to my skin.