The Pause, part two

Eyes dizzy Midwest snowstorm.
A layer of ice is a friction
On the surface of the river,
Clouds skid-mark the sky.

Blistered feet from imagined talking,
Zero displacement in all of the walking,

An intercepted conversation,
The loops and whorls of fingerprints,
Wood grain pressed into a firm handshake.

Strands of syllables,
Further devolved, readable but
Without sound or understanding
Drip an amber sap to fossilize.

Alone, relaxed from hands rigor-mortified,
My fingers arched around the back of my neck,
Face sinking into the down comforter
Feet hanging off the edge,
Quiet enough.Thinking about angles.

Less lonely, thinking about tessellations.
Maps, Constellations and GPS,
A geographer sits at a desk
With only navigatory inklings
And inanimate curiosity.

Letting tea seep in dim lit cold,

I’ve been told that it is not healthy to ask, What if?