My ice shelf

Parts of me are either exploding
or melting away. I think of mammoths
in melting ice. I think of fierce vikings.
I think “time is arbitrary.”
I also think despair is a silly thing to cling to when there things in the world like
a fine piece of chocolate (valhalla)
or the skill of enjoying a private moment
in a crowded room (thrilling).

I know I am never bored but sometimes
so lonely and blue, it’s as if I know I belong
buried in ice too, shaggy and preserved.
It’s facing another winter with its wind
and howling dark times that sends me
to places of wool and wondering.
I think that’s fine and arbitrary too.

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