Insomnia at Forty Below

After tossing and turning I cloak up
and step into the other larger room
outside, where frangible branches, glassy
garage and garbage cans have been chisled
from the brittle substance of algid air.
I take the crusted foot path towards the light
bulb inadvertently left on. Its fragile
filament now projects a sallow cone
across the desolation of the yard.
But my boot crunch stays a mute implosion
of fir boughs and snow and the curtain swirls
of the aurora above, inertia
with a smell of its own. My senses seize
this scene sustained by sound from emptiness.

In The Skin of Things