Like a beast at the water’s edge

I feed on the cold like a beast at the water’s
edge, head bowed to an existential compulsion.
The chill traces a dark path to a primal hunger
that predates the sun. Predates skin. Predates
touch. That November mist is the shifting circle of
my want, intersecting the unmanifest moon in a
contemptuous Venn diagram — a chiaroscuro of
shivering deprivation. But, I will not switch my fealty
to fire. I need this wintry balm, the numbness that
burns inwards from the extremities. If this is dissent,
then I dare heat to make its move. If this is revolt,
then mercury will never rise again. For now, my
blood is frozen. For now, light is an unformed candle
in the guilty sky. For now, warmth is absence, warmth
is malevolent myth, warmth is icy premonition.

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5 thoughts on “Like a beast at the water’s edge

  1. What happens to the revolution when it’s hot all year? Is November mist marked for extinction, or can it be caged in a zoo of language? Is that enough? Or can we declare lesser heat transitional ice, the way we must find larger categories for storms enraged by hot oceans?

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    1. Was thinking more of internal than external climate crisis when I wrote this – though your questions become valid even then – can anything so large ever get caged in a zoo of language. How to write about things so big, words simply cannot span their darkness?

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