Dear son:
alone is how we mediate the cold: the
cutting cold: the catatonic shiver state: the quake
on ways through dusk and after
dreams and heavy drinking, scouring
slurs pushed out in patricidal force against
us and—monstrous currs—waft in halo—
then—rend left, rip right, charge
skyward as Brutus’ snag before the
neighing protest clapped with ice—up wind
and back again, in buffet on the eyes
walled with apologetic cries—
and still, as arctic Avalon he whistles,
nothing to the season but his arguments—
not much to winter but the silence of
it, son, the deaf of the beating cold, and
alone, quite alone is how we mediate
our quarrels with the ice.