MATHEW DIGGES

Of the last ice age


I remember the helplessness slow
slowing the light slipped
and desire became ice
the light slips the sun
sets behind us we are
dressed in our best space
suits but tire of the cold hurt
by the discovery of portraits
far more fantastic than our own our
orbits slow and stop and desire
becomes ice where are you where
are you hurt nothing moves there
are sketches and words
sighs and staying up
late and too late