Frigid
Like an ice sculpture
In the bowels
of Pluto.
An iceberg in
a fjord.
Yet Having
no more substance
than an armature.
A windchime
of liquid nitrogen.

Gusty ghosts whistle
in harmony with the
shuddering of
Aurora Borialis.

Hunkered down
with no more
means than
a pocket
full of
metal
shavings.

A derelict who
has pushed
his shopping cart
all the way to
the point of
no return.

Now he sits
begging so
he'll have
enough to
hobble hunched.
To be a
high wire.


To
rattle
and
hum.