What the Ice Worms Eat
across the Bearspaw Dam
the low moan of a lake.
the syntax of air
like a great belch inside a queasy ice.
my T'ai Chi lover stills me on this weir
groping for words
between the lines on my face
his hands are beaten into gloves
that smooth the sore care behind my eyes
enter the deep holes of me like apocrypha
a small boy with fingers in a dike
salvaging sand, a village, a country
of people asleep who would,
except for his exquisite T'ai Chi
be flushed into the sea.
I grab his hands to lick their crags
before the lake freezes
want his fi ngers in my mouth
want a word from him for heat
beneath frozen glass.