whatever happens to that–that silence

between us I made so quietly

none see, snaking whispers, draped

meltwater on snowy stone as unevenly

sun falling enables floes to drift beneath

night-cuts, hours of vibrant pink, combing

fresh streaked mountains like meat above me.

no       whatever becomes of it, don’t let it

become me, sorry and no fairer

not saying what I say

























out away once more of

desire, civil twilight, reshaping

negative space with a darkish

river from above. nothing pleases


me more, save those for oneself, 

than feelings softly landing, the

snowflake breaking off its 

arms in sun, hardening over 

night the water of its spears




























forgive this greed for life, forbids me 

from kissing any other, having never 

stroked it before the sky-squeezed-out 

sun, flat snouts of glaciers. out of 

grotesque bedrock, long-nippled

spires glisten wet and the curve of 

earth where darkness is morning. to black

sand plastered grasses evolve to clutch. 

where gusts out-brood us stunning 

stillness deafens.



























speak less, sing. may I 

pass that term when 

I do not see you yet 


safely. I mention you 

so often to myself it

seems I knew you by

the time I did. hence

how little I speak and

captivating you are

 “In those areas, a southwesterly severe gale or storm is forecast with wind gusts in excess of 40 m/s. Snow or sleet,
and later snow showers, is expected with poor visibility and deteriorating driving conditions. Traveling is not advised.”

then many more air cavities

depressed throw with altered 

direction under slipped darts 

of snow. down the mount

can’t see, can’t feel what’s 

sogged through to the leg. head 

crusted with baby ice, just go,

don’t look, peel off the frozen 

pant, the boot, the glassy 

thigh in the station bathroom 

light. thoughtlessly wiped, alive

your body won’t make tremor.

then fear flashing colorless 

and the sudden reprieve: that 

               the mind’s the only 

               thing left moving





























thoughts through mist through morning

bandaged clouds, hands twisted on the 

basis of clouds. bird me, pluck me if

I’d let you. doffed murmurs possess fullness 

culture restrains, a sky of silence grows


and you are like a tree in a new invasion

of light, swaying in me towards acts beyond my

capacity. to you I communicate things only

quietude hears but tread among pronounced

signs of desire, flaring crocuses–the 

way you began was outside me




























climbing out the present, rippled 

to the crust, exaggerated by the influence

of a gale, be small. fish abundant in the

fjord, and one so busy catching

did not make hay or love, yet do those

fish dance out from his eyes in winter, split 

by fire

Jennifer Soong is the author of the books and chapbooks Near, At (Futurepoem),
When I Ask My Friend (DoubleCross Press, co-bound with Dan Owen's Points of
Amperture), Contempt (Spam Press), Suede Mantis/Soft Rage (Black Sun Lit), and
Hand Hiding Hand (forthcoming with Face Press, illustrated by Thom Donovan).
Originally from New Jersey, she currently lives and teaches in Oxford, UK.