Paul C. Howell
Coming of Ice Age

We're north of imagination now out of range
No more sparks not even memories
It's all just thunder and sliding glaciers
We're slung under dark clouds, brown
And serpentine. They must get tired of this
The snakes and other spirits
We did venery as valiantly as any human could
Now out of all that molten stone we're an igneous
Bluff. But suddenly or gradually we look
Not for the object of desire but for looking itself
We reach for the comforting old Schott Glas
We used to be able to grope in the darkest blind
But now it's gone or we're sinking like Winnie
Into dry cold sand like one autumn day
When the wind blows the leaves off the trees
Blows the leaves and fills the ground with fading back
Thinking back without the taut resonance of spring
Training for the sprint back into range