This Inwardness, This Ice

This inwardness, this ice, this wide boreal whiteness into which he's come with a crawling sort of care for the sky's severer blue, the edge on the air, trusting his own lightness and the feel as feeling goes; this discipline, this glaze, this cold opacity of days begins to crack. No marks, not one scar, no sign of where they are, these weaknesses rumoring through, growing loud if he stays, louder if he turns back. Nothing to do but move. Nowhere to go but on, to creep, and breathe, and learn a blue beyond belief, an air too sharp to pause, this distance, this burn, this element of flaws that winces as it gives. Nothing to do but live. Nowhere to be but gone.