I read that eventually,
glacial ice becomes thick enough
to flow under stress of its own weight,
and now I think of the Laurentide constantly,
of ice and chewed rock,
a melted tongue
cutting the island to grooves.

I hear things as they were.
A churn of plucked gravel.
For basal melt, whine.
Since schist likes to whisper,
I might as well listen,
go walk on the bones.

Oh, glacial erratic,
I am fell for you, too.
All these scars in the park,
always scraping out blues.


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