Of cold winter,
icy blue-white
or visceral rime.
Of wind,
if mist falls
down
hell’s sheer cliffs;
or volcanic ice,
when its abyss is carved
across the forbidden.
Of paradise,
or star-forged instants
against your mouth’s sky,
dark, as the light drowns
and forgets to breathe it:
gone downriver
out of the soul.