the noonday moon calved
by a glacier hung
above the chasm between
two mountains cold and coppery the shade
of dead sunlight
these mountains could be cloudbanks
their shadows mountains
icebergs locked into the sound
transient mountains solid clouds
throwing shadows on the snow
houselights strung along
the shore
a constellated scythe houses
silver forms blent
with black masses
of shadow
stilted
ready to step
into the frozen sound
Zachariah Wells is still here.