There are canisters of kerosene
burning a path across the ice
taken from the kitchen store
and put there in two long rows—
midnight-blue, penguin-starred
briefly interrupted. We live
underground because it’s warmer.
We’ve heard news of a Great Schism
and that the Old Calendarists
have not forgotten a certain slight
and of a church infested by bees
how honey runs from the walls.