In this frozen dawn, the garage door iced shut, electric switches stuttering above the rafters like a boy just risen from the cold sea. When the gray ice calved off our gables, we staggered from a dream the ceiling fell. What is so near, so unbroken as the clouds of grayness in our speech? Our friend in White Plains said while dying, It's too bad. Ah, the brown spots on his arms, the shanks of his thighs that I stroked like firewood. I thought he said, It's stupid. And now I can hold my hand against the sun, look at the x-ray bones of my fingers, dream of wolves racing on the tundra, and days later crunch the cindery edge of bleeding ice. A dampness creeping upwards into my knees, a slow porous philosophy taking privilege and lightness from my step. I'm slipping on three long weeks of ice! Feet kicked out from under me, mid-air, hovering shyly on my side like a bulky angel clapping extended legs, mimicking Nureyev, Nijinsky in this split second aloft for as long as it takes my dog to believe I’m flying!