A fissure in the ice kneading.
The land mass receding.
The creaking floorboard.

No longer in my conscious register,
the sound becomes a rhythm to which
I live.

In rending,
splitting,
click-ticking,
gradual,
infinitesimal
increments-

In cartilaginous pops I dance
along to the sound that I ignore...
The creaking floorboard.