A poem by the Dutch poet Anneke Brassinga

Drift ice

The shining mist already outlines shadows.

We pull up the water right to our chins

like sheets, so ripplingly cool and fresh-starched,

we come to be bedded together, forever entwined

in the gauze of times past, when peacefully

no word we gave to what binds us, sleep

of unmoored reason, towards dreamed-up monsters.