He is standing in daylight, gazing
down at a huge block of ice; a carnival
in winter, hot cider, red sashes, revellers
carving ice block into animation.
He has placed the tips of his fingers
on the frozen surface then closed one
eye, anticipating the cold’s journey
up the hard bones of his arm, the way
steam curls around pot handles, up to his
chest encasing his heart. To his left, in
suede and wool, her breath a white round
snare drum, Yes
what you feel now is pure, over and over
with the sun in descent. A crowd appears,
his arms jerk back in a bolt of fear, the
closed eye won’t open, turns inward as if kicked
and by now the frost has snapped like
a trap on his tongue so there’s no saying
why or even I love you. Nothing left but
to chew it. Shadows growing long and a glint
in the open eye, hemorrhaging light into
the dusk, quick, dalliance of motion, now —