Light in this cold is
so slant it bends
sound to it.
You can see
words in clouds
that rise and scatter
before they reach another
frozen figure who has ears
to hear them.
Nothing remains
but the air between
you and the sun,
orange on an alien
horizon, with no
more meaning than
a gesture in a place
where language falters
at the speed of light.
from Six Stops South (Cherry Grove Collections, 2009)
