Glacier That a field of ice does not acquiesce— That it meets the sea and calves its sundered selves, bergs. Breath is no authority. That there was this glacier in me, firn-slid, down-slope. And far from center. The light rose hungered. And the sky in consensus: matte drifts and no temperature. All this slowness. Heaviness. At the rate of living— *Published in New American Writing