Cold Truths

Vernon Frazer & Michelle Greenblatt



Random shifters drift


                              a measured rubric


                      easing phantoms for


                             alcoves dank with mold


                                   a rubric dried in snow


                                       precious, precious, where it may


                                         drop, an angel's hand to


                                            hold it. Stagnant though those



                                               leaves may be, the crystals



                                                      swollen in their palms


                                                shatter, to bleed new ice


                                          in the cold.


                                                      A frontage road heaves


                                              under the frost's natal torment


          where I stand, thunderstruck,

                                             at the thought of your distance,

          at the thought of your going. And

                                                  when I reach my hands out,

          they smash through a smoky

                                                  window, they grasp at dry

         ice that paves shadows with



crystals of complexity,

                            each nuance unrepeatable,



flaking a different mind,

                             I anticipate a memory


of each






                               calibrated                              felt

close as bones to my skin.