you shift your weight
onto the prow of this dream,
steering clear of cliffs,
jagged edges.
this travel is what
we've coaxed from the root.
you rise like a stalk of celery,
up, up and green, green poking
its big angry stick at the sky,
gouging out the judaic sun,
lucent petals unfurling
like the decoration in a napkin.

you lean into the strange white province
where everything is a swirl,
a dizzying height,
and all this ice is no more a blessing
than it is a beesting,
a swift, cold, kick to the face.
what did you expect to find
other than lack of oxygen,
this dead white space
where nothing thrives?