what ice tempers us;
if in our elemental state
this darkness masquerades as dust
on summer’s day windowsills,
buoyed on moving beams,
when our eyes are closed in union
this darkness is a seam
between our heat and cool
and our slick cementing pool
of radiation, circulating
behind four eyelids tightening.
What fires do we see in elation,
the patterns of the fallout in our minds,
our groins ensemble certainty of mutuality
bound in dual kind;
there are the flames of suns falling
behind a sea,
there are flickers of morning firelighters
crackling beneath dry wood.
There are embers glowing, sizzling
from the dribbling meat fat.
There are summers of blood red on the backs
of eyelids in the sun
and winters of candlelight and hearths.
There is an oven with a coffin,
and galaxies turning.
The ground frost cannot temper us,
as we lie above the earth,
it is our dew that binds the grass
to our skin on this Sunday’s birth.
So what ice will turn our outside in,
until our heart and mind is numb;
the pattern of your face on my retina
engrained, with eyes open it will come;
frozen sheets at the bottom of the bed,
melting ice cream tempting our teeth,
windshields with patterns crystallised
by the night,
virgin prints in snow trailing our steps,
snow-angels joined at the hip.
Skin cool to touch, dry,
dark energy pushing us to zero Kelvin.
What fires will turn our insides out,
what ice will temper us;
our chemistry seen on standstill days
is love within sunrays, dust on a windowsill.
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