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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