Needles stand like the pikes on a fence, tidied into sweet little lines
and above them I stand on the pricks of their peaks as still as the statue I have been all night.
And caged not in bars but by sheets of frozen rain, tipped over the edge of the sky,
a thousand sheets, more, ten thousand more than before, of that cold and impenetrable ice.
And I have room to breath, to walk, run, and fight; without chain or shackles holding me down.
But the more that I speak, the more that I breathe, the faster the rain falls until I drown.
And the more that I dare, the farther I venture, the less certain that I am,
that in this shade of the avalanche above, I am safe where I stand.