Nicholas Hughes lives as an Outcast in Alaska

If he could he would speak another language

one of cold-sky-cutting, of some sharp delineating environment.

Like a razor-blade it divides the landscape, ever so carefully,

a guillotine which bores ineluctably through dimensions.

Separation, that universal emollient, is all that calms him

And the fire smokes, warms

a dream of worlds where that precarious omnipresent edge

of anxiety does not hover.

Shadows here, are unmoving, recumbent, quite enough of an intrusion.

Here one drills holes in glaciers

and harvests things with scales

which do not remind him of people