We lugged the ice across the porch to California from New York;
A length of floorboard was all we traversed on the way.
Black gloves don’t keep the weather out,
But this is winter in your sleep:
Our hands insistently press against
Cold cubes cut from cutthroat snows
That are warmer than the bend in the back of my knee.
One of my cubes is losing a corner that crumbled when I wasn’t looking.
I pile on the snow from the ground
But it isn’t the same when the snow’s not the same,
It doesn’t pack on the right way.
You can see how I tried with the seam,
It’s broken and we can’t hide it,
Now everyone will see.
Why did we have to drag it?