Listen to Christian Wiman reading this poem. This inwardness, this ice, this wide boreal whiteness
into which he's come
with a crawling sort of care
for the sky's severer blue,
the edge on the air,
trusting his own lightness
and the feel as feeling goes;
this discipline, this glaze,
this cold opacity of days
begins to crack.
No marks, not one scar,
no sign of where they are,
these weaknesses rumoring through,
growing loud if he stays,
louder if he turns back.
Nothing to do but move.
Nowhere to go but on,
to creep, and breathe, and learn
a blue beyond belief,
an air too sharp to pause,
this distance, this burn,
this element of flaws
that winces as it gives.
Nothing to do but live.
Nowhere to be but gone.
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