Temporary empires of frost. This darkness has the past in it. Year by year the cathedral sinks deeper into the marsh. Imagine anyone this deliberately lost. An icicle tools its way to murder. A service to the stones, who know the intent in falling.
How do you discover what you’re made for? Wasn’t that something the cold asked you once? He’s so lost and inflexible you could be the memory of a wall he refused to tear down. He could be something to sit in when the iced dawn asks you to participate. A territory bereft of human intervention. A construction of refined inaction.
In this way, he is slowly kidnapped by warmer weather, a friend of invisible glass animals deliberating their pitch while the earth is superficially dissected again and again by the welcome rain, cutting the disease from the earth’s skin so neatly the scars don’t show. He’s like a planet, one of the patients, escaped, his illness held close.
By this time, he has achieved a deeper understanding of water, which makes him look gray and experienced, nearly ready to fall apart. The swarms of metaphorical pain he calls “bees” arrive as he sits thinking, and whatever it is he has learned, but can not name, surrounds him with a distant kind of singing.