In lacking, the ice takes on fluency, despite
the humiliation, the nudity — making
a puddle of her faculties. In this, she drips.
Not to say for misery. She knows her being
relies on these: a patch of sun, a turn in breeze,
an adjustment of but two degrees. How can she
take it personally? But still, each piece of her
that the climate kills becomes the stream that trickles
downhill, and suddenly she is all less and more.
Less to touch. More to ignore, as her body breaks
and she rushes free, briefly singular, and then
in ripples, indistinguishable. Thawed to be.