Bluffs-Bessemer, MI

This Inwardness, This Ice
This inwardness, this ice,
this wide boreal whiteness
into which he's come
with a crawling sort of care
for the sky's severer blue
the edge on the air,
trusting his own lightness
and the feel as the feeling goes;
this discipline, this glaze
this opacity of days
begins to crack.
No marks, not one scar
no sign of where they are
these weaknesses rumoring through,
growing loud if he stays,
louder if he turns back.

This element of flaws 

that winces as it gives

Nothing to do but live.

Nowhere to be but gone.

By Christian Wiman