A wonderment is all the silent streams that melt
The Arctic ice in a grim slow death.
The light! The drowning light! The bright furious
Unimaginable light which bathes the scene.
The sterile burn of it that scalds the skin.
I cannot take the light, like all blind moles.
I shrank from proper accountability and fled
The sparkling ice fields and snow-capped mountains
And settled somewhere close to the swamps of old,
Sinking in a mire of my own doing might strike
The ear as just desserts for crimes committed!