To one below the surface of the ice
the ice itself looks as if something white
and openings and wind wells where still quite
open water moves look, if there’s a slice
of daylight left, as if expanses fraught
with darkness. And only he who knows aright
an exit lies in what is dark, that white
means darkness (that ice can so distort
conditions as they’re pictured by the eye)
and who, against his instinct, swims away
from light towards the dark sees day again.
There is, once a small habit stirs, or by
a word that changes meaning, a chance, though stray,
of someone getting out. That he sees day again.