Light happens to be behind
all wonder, even your little piles.
When I see your
hands and his hands,
earth everywhere, the earth bowled out.
Spores and worms and dirt under your nails.
The start of all starts.
We have moved north all our lives.
The sharded summits of Greenland as we pass over
come off clean in our hands.
We take ships to capacity,
trail the white white
and the blue, the shipping lanes—
from the lucht with Holland at our backs
the crossing is within eyesight.
It is a way to measure something.
But if not ice, then what? Then snow?
Then winter years? The observable oktas?
Sky conditions as symbol for?
You pile molecules at higher temperatures,
piles of the fervor,
the opposite, better:
the conflicting evidence.
What is left to measure here.
We will launch again and again,
computing coverage, cloud albedo, the light
that gets in,
just to say:
the very little light that collects
sorry, I am sorry,
from this height,
there is too much grief to measure.