Through

From a great height I see
smooth stones laid across the bottom
of the gelid pond
It is cold up here.

At a great distance I see
dark specks move against the horizon
perfect in their lack of definition
perfect in hearts with thunder flashes
and the language of the land
perfect as motes in blind eyes
Pick up the phone.

This is what I say when I say I understand:
I know fish frozen in this pond
dreams held in stasis
dart, motionless, for Spring

I know why the gods required their breath for Fassbinder
I know you
(when you cry out
against your frozen palm)

or,
passing a cemetery,
hold your breath.