“Ice” by Don Colgan


She gleamed with cunning, seeing such a chance.
He spotted her. His blood congealed to glass.
Her brittle features turned a sort of dance.
He statuesquely let her glory pass.

She could not catch him in her waltzing net;
He shook his head to render null her glance.
He stands, a monument to waiting-yet,
His frozen soul impervious to dance.

"The game is up, my earnest, you cannot,
You cannot teach an icy rail to dance."
He drips into her shadow, lot by lot,
Escaping such a thin, indicted chance.