I have stepped onto the ice
without ever knowing solid ground.
And now I learn to skate on the blades
of plaid pants and Doc Martens,
and most dearly,
a pen.

The snow stabs a white-hot light
in my eyes, and
the wind digs cold black talons
in my skin.
The weaker varieties of caterpillar
die on the ice;
they lose their sight.

And I will not forget
that this horizonless frost
is my cocoon.
When I'm trained with these skates,
and my eyes slice sharper than snow,
I'll find the horizon,
beside the teacher, the artist, the chemist,
the lawyer, the drunks, the fags,
and the poets.

All the unsteady young minds
of a frigid yet
indefinite world.
We'll burst from the ice
and fly beyond the wind.