Ice-chips plucked whole from the smoke,
the past weeks stars all frozen in flight,
Head over heels the skaters club goes,
clinking its rink with the peal of night.
Step slow, slower, slow-er, skater,
pride carving its trace as you race by.
each turns a constellation cut there,
scratched by a skate in Norways sky.
The air is fettered in frozen iron.
Oh, skaters! There its all the same,
that, like snakes eyes set in ivory,
nights on earth, a domino game:
that moon, a numb hounds tongue
is there, frozen tight: that mouths like
the forgers of coins are stung,
filled with lava of breathtaking ice.
