Paul C. Howell
	Coming of Ice Age   We're north of imagination now out of range No more sparks not even memories It's all just thunder and sliding glaciers   We're slung under dark clouds, brown And serpentine. They must get tired of this The snakes and other spirits   We did venery as valiantly as any human could Now out of all that molten stone we're an igneous Bluff. But suddenly or gradually we look   Not for the object of desire but for looking itself We reach for the comforting old Schott Glas We used to be able to grope in the darkest blind   But now it's gone or we're sinking like Winnie Into dry cold sand like one autumn day When the wind blows the leaves off the trees   Blows the leaves and fills the ground with fading back Thinking back without the taut resonance of spring Training for the sprint back into range