For preservation, some say salt. Some say ice.
A deer bounds across a meadow, balancing
its bone chandelier: ice.
There are lakes which have islands
which have lakes: ice.
In Wakayama, crows are worshipped
as gods: salt.
Venus rotates backwards, and slowly,
dizzy with the counterclockwise logic of desire.
A day there is longer than a year: salt.
The Japanese have more than 50 words for rain: ice.
Why everyone hates mimes: salt.
When we say refugee crisis, we mean the sum of the parts
refuses to be whole: salt on ice.
The frosted window panes of memory,
the brackish leakages of longing—
whichever sibling dies, it’s the wrong one.