NEAR THE COLD HOUSE GOING

For William Bronk

Spit of land, rain, wind, clouds: 

and the heavy bicycles we rode for twelve days

into the Atlantic. Distance, time,

bright vessels made from an obliquity of language,  

the cluttered space we prowled. 

On the bridge within the air above the ice in flame.

It’s time’s cut, you see, locked against intrusive light. 

*** 

This is a start of something. It needs an expanded form, an exploratory gist.