by Bill Yarrow
A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.
Was there, he wondered, some parasite,
some infiltrated germ, some totalitarian
pest, asbestos fiber, cancerous
particle, irradiated isotope, sliver
of glass, peach pit, foam nugget,
stray hair, impinged corpuscle,
magnesium wad, metaphysical
quill or arrant stalk moored in him,
or what? Why was it so difficult to move
toward anything? Was his will congealed?
His doctor recommends an Arctic cruise.
He travels to a frozen stream, a frozen
lake, a frozen sea. He photographs the
awesome ice. A glacier calves inside him.
All rights reserved.
This poem under another title appeared in Connor Stratman's poetry blog The Balloon in 2009.
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).