At the sea level a polished ice.
Under it,
two polite humanoids that cannot pass,
Their painful courtesy increasing
against the cold crusted water.
I have the urge to cry.
I have for years.
The storm swirls deeply,
Blurring boundaries between
The dead and the sea.
The winter will sail
beyond borders and shore,
an elegant hole in the warm web of living.
For now,
nude humanoids,
Scratching at the well-kept surface
Of a national ice.
Miniature Moon 