Glazed frost spores on the water. I was drift

wood but ill will has washed me back to shore.

Anger still clings to my heart. Spores shift,

spores bloom, even now when I know the cure.

Ja, wrath and fears are inane. Ja, one numb

thought fills me: the lust tree of ash denied.

Darkness root covers me. I have become

hungry, a ghost dwelling in my frost fried

thoughts, hell of a rage cloud, ah desires.

I would drink so I wouldn’t have to dwell.

Antarctic; it means, “without bears.” Fitting.

Inward. Roots in fog. Forcemeat. Vice stung choirs

whinnied, then shied. Frost, indeed. That ice smell.

Margin’s djinn. A fond farewell, farewelling.