Under ice
we breathe in shrunken sentences,
locked in
by the firn dome overhead
moving through our white sleep
like a clock’s hour hand.
Here we are safe
from the eagle’s perfect hands,
from the wild she-bear of our legends.

Still our young—
vibrating,
hearts hot as suns—
complain of boulders on their backs,
and search for some mythical crevasse
to the surface.