Robed in snow, the ice advances.
The cold takes your ungloved hand
while you fish for the keys,
doesn’t let go.

Steam spirited off the river
is swept east as if called back
to where Fahrenheit and Celsius have reconciled
like enemy generals in the afterlife.
Each pass of the sun’s shuttle
through the warp of furnace steam
combs through you like carded wool.

Shore and shoals are parceled out.
Seagulls measure the dimensions.
Light looks through its level.
The wind spreads its blueprint,
while the snow makes meticulous notes.
It starts with the first freeze: dead shad
slipped through the mail slot.
It starts with the easy pieces,
moving out from the shore.
Next, the islands are annexed, the bridge piers
and jutting rocks where crystals cluster,
building a consensus, a lacy ruff,
like an accent congealing around certain vowels.
Eagles are delivered on pallets
of polar air. The current thickens
like a custard, wavy old windows, films over.
Rogue floes look to merge.

But what a culture! The ambassador
kisses you on either tingling cheek,
then, while you aren’t looking,
lands a big one on the mouth,
freezing milkfoam in your mustache.