Weep No More

I leave your room empty. Thomas Merton

It is threat enough to sever
all pink, fresh tendons in advance,
to yank out your own tongue.

Midwinter, in Michigan, even
the hugest lakes freeze over.
You can walk on the moon of their surfaces.
You can drive your truck out to the center.

One night late, I wandered
between waters, in fog.
Suddenly, whirls of red lights,
muffled sirens: The rescuers
once again were pulling
someone out of the ice.

The twists of blue pain as flesh thaws.
The alive winds leaping over craters.

Even a veil, wound snug over ears
in the double walled cloister,
is no longer adequate.