They took a photograph from space the astronauts saw
you could sail all the way to the North Pole
through channels cracked in the ice

She was reading a book on redemption and consumption
something to do with Mao Zedong
Her hair stirred in the draught from an open window
a splintered calligraphy of clouds and rain

Her eyes and her fragile feet were birds

And it was black rain

I was working on a poem with a loose slacker ethos
about a couple who were staying at the Ice Hotel

They tried to keep the tears a whole night frozen

Their love was futile people still ploughed the soil
mist still came in with its silence
like a gathering animal shyly
at the edge of the field

I wanted to take the earrings from her lobes
and kiss the tiny holes pierced for the gold
little mouths
dumb for whispers

I took a photograph of her above the snowline
the blackness of her hair the whiteness of the snow
Her bones are light

I can only love like flown birds

Branches blind for spring waiting

The snow is light

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