Floating, freezing—

cracking piece by piece.

Popping, snapping with the footfalls

of native hunters.

They know the many names of snow.


Zero below.

The ice caves are

smooth, slick, and stenciled in frost.

The bergs flow gracefully in the hidden river.

Quietly, the men move through the blue cove.

Breaking for cold jerky,

searching the cracked tracks for a trail.

Ice fog breathing.


Zero below,The ice is a quiet death,

yet its silent, blue cold

is a frozen beauty.

Her popsicle kiss

turns men to stone.

Home is a winter's dream,

too far to keep them warm.

Centuries later,

Their huddled forms are found -

white marble.

Tossing Sperm whales like they were cotton balls,

Slam dancing beneath the furious slate-grey waves,

Kick boxing sharks, while octopi slid into wafer thin crevices,

hidden from the whirlwind of seaweed, broken coral, and ground up sand.

The angry titan fumbled his trident, spearing ships and deep sea denizens alike.

The curls raced and echoed throughout the dark beaches of this arctic land,

speaking in the tongues of many—

Native, foreign, old, young—

A sailor's wet lament, a fisherman's curse, a widow's heartache.

Exotic dreams, love letters—now shredded, dissolved.

Campfire tales and drunken beach parties.

At dawn, the pickers will search the sand for buried prizes.

A polished stone, a mammoth bone, or a walrus' tooth.

Starfish and jellies dying in the fresh fall air.

The aquatic ruler spits out pieces of splintered boats,

calming the sea with his rhythmic breathing.

In/Out, Back and Forth, To and Fro,

Life or Death.

Nestled deep in the bosom of the ocean,

The old god turns fitfully in his sleep.