box of jars

ming holden
Ground Passage
VII.

This ice is not the ice they knew.
I make 
Believe.  


What I am giving 
Up by opening
My mouth so that 
Renamed ice 
Can affect my tongue with holes 

And I learn a new language.



						The twilight happened flat between thin white trees
						Ebbing reveries.


						It happens now in darker branches, cradled, releasing.


Hush, I tell them, touching out.

Connect us.