my forehead. I lean against it, look at the snow
that would not hold me, its agreements
more lax, more wink and nudge.
Your skin feels firm beneath my hand,
though time’s already taxing its elasticity
around your edges, and the thought that this too,
warm solid, will someday liquefy terrifies.
In the morning I go out onto lake.
The fishermen and I rely on the tacit consonance of ice:
That it will not yield. Will not crack.
Though we appear to walk on black sky,
its milky constellations.
