The Coldest Place (Poetry)

There is no beauty more resolute or less compromising
none as sheer in its clinical precision
as this minimalist stretch of whiteness that makes
all the senses ache. The eye looks hard for flaws —
seeks out any redeeming break in its perfection but
                                finds none —
just a smooth infinity that curves over the horizon —
                                goes on and on
for imperfection might suggest a weakness that betrays
                                such rigid discipline
an undermining of unspoken rules carved deep
under the ice.

History is a breath trapped — a gasp held in suspension imagined
                                as a bubble frozen in the lungs
the temperature so low that blood’s an ancient icicle forbidden to
                                thaw
and living flesh forgets to feel — goes gladly numb in preparation
                                for the dark to come.

Contemptuous, the landscape lifts a face that doesn’t age —
remains changeless in its mask of snow — powdered thick with
                                too much calm and certainty
it grips its title — the coldest place on earth.