An Ice Age

1

It might be fine to lie

so close the grass can hear you

low wind passing over

and the small

narcotic voices

of the seventeen-year cicadas

In your narrow place no light

No longer caring but cared for

No longer counting but counted

At length forgotten if you’re fortunate

Each winter sooner

deeper colder

later

2

When all the pines

along the burying hill have fallen

When all the granite steps have stumbled

from their staircase lifting up

among the toppled stones

When the last few gulls have

drifted eastward on their shallow sea

When the hill is gone and the air is changed

it might be safe for what remains of you

to stand up from yourself and walk

requiring nothing

leaving

no prints in the snowpack

going without arriving

or departing

New blue light coming in and out of you

Seeing

without having to describe