Ice-chips plucked whole from the smoke,

the past week-s stars all frozen in flight,

Head over heels the skater-s club goes,

clinking its rink with the peal of night.


Step slow, slower, slow-er, skater,

pride carving its trace as you race by.

each turn-s a constellation cut there,

scratched by a skate in Norway-s sky.


The air is fettered in frozen iron.

Oh, skaters! There - it-s all the same,

that, like snake-s eyes set in ivory,

night-s on earth, a domino game:


that moon, a numb hound-s tongue

is there, frozen tight: that mouths like

the forgers of coins- - are stung,

filled with lava of breathtaking ice.