As if, already in this frosted dawn
these stars had drawn away all warmth, as if
the patterned constellations broke their rounds
conceding, in the luminous vast space
of absolute cold, something colder still,
this ice sketches new figures over glass
 
reminding me of snowdrifts on the banks
of northern rivers- one particular
bridged every quarter mile near its bay
that in my mind seems universal now,
a wilderness of concrete and bent steel
reflecting architectural conceits
 
or archives, meant to imitate the sky's
own curves, or ice-ridges cutting my hands,
or waterfalls, caught by a sudden wind
as if these constant fluxes could be stilled
or some new form be reinvented to
rename the figures of our early dawn.