Ice and Icicles:

Silence and I gaze all fields in the eyes
and I find her descriptive, a traceable
demographic of the sense of time.
She looks sideway, tired of too much gazing,
too much time spend on heat refrigerating
and skins shrinking into their body-bags.
Fresh from icebergs, preserved in oils
and in a saturated clothe wringing of water,
she tells of thousands who have dissolved
into salts and tides. Some raining like mist
in the air, from the bank of the rushing wind.
Some too afraid to melt in the tang of the sun
as puddles and muds; some as fog and dews.
Some sift and bounce the grief on eyelids,
quaking of farewells with both waving hands.
An unwelcome signification, a waif—
objects cast overboard to lighten a burden.
Here, Silence says me grim and I interject
with my lips pressed against each other.
My hand to my chest, I doctor my shadows,
my strength raptly attentive to tiny waves,
ready to shoot at roads at the sound of guns,
and roaring of floods and hurricanes.
I am too frozen to be cold. Too dead
to be dead when death warmly hugs,
when it grabs you from a fall on a cliff,
and you stare through the hand to the grin—
a deadly death. Me too dead to be dead.
I know I will fall again into shards,
like a child into ice, a mother into icicles,
like I have been silently talking to myself.