Tuesday Poem; ICE, by Tim Cumming

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The Independent Culture
Last night I dreamt it had snowed, she said,

and in the morning snow had fallen.

They stopped what they were doing for a while

and retraced their steps to familiar ground,

but nothing there looked right anymore.

Ends didn't meet, needs weren't met.

They could try going back to the beginning, he thought,

and they hugged each other and he remembered thinking

how quiet it was and how little light.

They walked through the house like survivors.

What happened to us? she asked.

The snow stopped when twilight fell,

and what had settled turned to ice.

Life thickened during that day

into something that should've

been kept underwater. He developed a tic

on the left side of his face.

He sat on the same chair for hours

and a milky condensation appeared on the glass.

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