Glacier

That a field of ice
does not acquiesce—

That it meets the sea
and calves
its sundered selves,

bergs. Breath
is no authority.

That there was this
glacier in me,
firn-slid,

down-slope.
And far from center.

The light rose
hungered.
And the sky in consensus:

matte drifts
and no temperature.
All this slowness.

Heaviness.
At the rate of
living—



*Published in New American Writing