Metamorphose in Place
After
Kit Kelen --
thinking of Odveig Klyve's Norway winter (ekphrasis)
It’s the sound of cold, ice cracking
minus the ice
waves
of sound flowing into the room
metamorphose in place
no
birds because at night damp sets in
fear slides over the skin, as a chill, as
an opening
it
isn’t nothing to watch the snow hard
even
from a distance, sweat on my face
fingers numb with heat
asymmetry
creates its own light
from
memory, the pull of frost
where
you might be if I can imagine it
hard,
always fixed while I melt into it
letting the scattering take me
further
into lightness
this
isn’t a pastoral
it’s winter
night
is elastic and endless
covered by frost
letting
no light in
except what it makes itself
it’s
not nice being alone here
so I try to keep you
at
least in a metaphoric sense
remade
from strands of hair
from
cells left casually on the bathroom floor
but I
don’t really want to be saved
I
don’t really want anything now
not darkness,
not fear, not cold
just
the sound of this silent beauty on frozen skin.
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