It is stirring with the pre-conditions of ice.
It is thinking of immobility but cannot bring itself to the place
Where stillness meets cold and the flow down to the estuary
Refuses its quick, rivulet writings.
It is bright as the backs of glaciers
Without their faux eternal geometries.
Boats can still press through it but their hulls ache and at times it stops
Them awhile, wanting to be hard, to lie there without yielding.
It only knows a short winter.
Its mind is temperate, coastal at its perimeters but its core seizes up
Into ice. It dreams it will become this slippery horror that no one can
Move within. Beautiful as the ineffable always is it will shine.
Its banks will seem proximate. Each quick current will hold,
Inside the silence, its true form.
Winter River 2
At first, as if it is arrested, a grey & flake-scrimmed plateau, all ice –
but the day moves it gradually back to river; it is flecked with cold boats;
it busts its carapace and now look, the juxtaposed freight –
here, scoliotic logs being shimmied up the shoreline
& alongside now a swan-neck of broken glaciers;
It is undulant towards the bridge in the later-to-be revenant snow & workers
watching through wire the transfiguration as it