The ice was always cracking
In its low thundering mist
we felt our own slick
treacheries accumulating. We skated ‘til dark,
dodging in and out
of the groaning
weather, shivering forward
like a train shuttering forever towards the horizon.
And only for a moment did we hope
for the ice below us to peel back, for
the surface to rearrange itself beneath us.
Then — we were falling, glamorously
into a black — splash of water.
We couldn’t wait to be famous,
or simply to leave,
to look back
upon it — our miniature landscape,
a diorama of who we’d once been,
where we’d placed our cold
red hands and
our hot and hopeful breath.