Steve Baggs Glaciers That night I thought I could slip away like Elvis, but our hands touched, elements finding their rightful place. The Universe settled, dovetailed in, the last piece of a jigsaw contented. The months and years split open that Sunday morning as the Sun collapsed in on itself. The Moon was cut adrift and the stars were screaming diamonds. The Thames froze again. A million ice cubes fell, porcupine kisses on our backs put into cold storage. We talked around it like two fish denying the existence of water, insisting that the Woolly Mammoth would survive the Ice Age. A butterfly left its pupae; the planet was slipping from its axis. Stardust turned to rust as blood vessels whispered the heart is sick. The compass points had changed, our hands slipped, Elvis was dead.
CPQ Summer 2012