Polar Alcove

My hands are too cold to love,
too Siberian from becoming the
atrophy among
summer ends...

These nocturnal calidity
tiers
are abdicating me -
I feel as if I am the
secluded bay,
a symphony
frozen in charcoal
portrayals of you.

But each time, I try to
close in further,
you return vexed,
two hemispheres

-

Ice caps are no longer
diminishing...
and I will soon be stone
of dreams well-prompted
on how to make feelings
numb.

My only comfort is my
sight,
bringing me home
on a sail I didn't
know how to wrestle against-

so I must evolve
into a point far beyond return,
only an eye in the ocean,

a soul shivering for a place
I choose, un-glaciated and
leaving me to rest
my beryl heart.

This place will conclude
all the ice that has been like
puppetry, strings I cannot
move away from,
nor help but slide
like covered rhythm...

because when you first
tried to love,
the world believed your
insolence and let flurries
snatch colour from their
dresser drawers.

They never thought
memory could be thwarted,
they believed in life as
division,

and so did I.

Written 7/3/2012 at 10:35 pm.