I imagine how it would feel to watch the ice reform overhead
and through the body as I see myself swimming
into sweet-toothed spirals—if the ice would thicken
enough to block out all light, chords spasming in the silence—
a C sharp minor, silk under the fingers, strum into shivers—
a contraction of every curved turn and muscle of confusion.
It is not hard to trace the corkscrew path I wound, again, to these depths
where the numbed imagination fails itself into wondering
how hard the heart must beat to flow through icy constriction
how hard this timber compulsion must pulse until I am done
gasping, and grasp for that—caged thing—inside the chillest lands of me.
And if, by some witchcraft, I manage to float upward,
how long until my lungs fill with water again. 

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