Glacial air fogs your glasses—
I see you, perched atop, stakes
in blue frozen ground to measure
kinematic waves, trans: the way
ice moves
over years.
Slid into blue air, white-haired
snow-bird, you heed a throated call
to number, track atomic impact
over gray shores and rain-wet jungles
greater than
the speed of sound.
Variable wave number
and angular frequency fly
to frigid skies in ski-footed
helicopters—you, left to the sight
of your own warm
breath, as it
remains.
You remain, wandering
equations in the margins
70x7, number and word—
palimpsests
melt to green
inside each
footfall.