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