on the cold, alaska 2016
you say there are only two types of cold:
in one a shadow hangs on your bones like an old ghost;
the other is a color, or stillness, or both.
part of me still melts in the summer months,
part stays green year-round:
come, see the bitter artist at work
say how’s that for a show? look at the sky
bleed into the horizon, how the peaks cry and carve
the earth with their guilt;
say here, we are all running from something,
land of lost boys, gone chasing clouds
only to end up in smoke.
say, how’s that for a show? see how lonely can look
so beautiful with the lights on, when the ice has receded
and the ground has begun to regain its color.
know that even then, the cold remains.