(better sleep in the cold)

               Who sees open windows with closed eyes?

The ice stretches deep below our home,
down to aquifers filled by ancient storms.

My silhouette opens lost worlds;
yours shines forth ours;
below, our ice grows ever downward.

Daily we live in perfect parallel,
ever equal, never reaching, never kissing.
Our conscious sky radiates but its honest self,
in calm, tornado green.

Our eyes cannot close—
not to our world—not to lost worlds—
without feeling a crack of growing ice.

Scientists say we sleep better in the cold.
Perhaps, sleeping in frozen air, we do reach.

               Perhaps our ice does kiss?

— after Annie K Blake’s painting “We Live Close By”

Theric Jepson is the current editor of Irreantum. His novel Just Julie’s Fine has some Greek letters but no Greek words and only for math reasons. thmazing.substack.com