Ice Sculpture City

There’s a place called ice sculpture city
It floats above sea level cloaked by clouds
The artist spends days chiseling the blocks into
Gothic fronts and doorways
He uses simple tools, caressing the ice as it numbs his palm and shivers at the touch;
A slow single drop drips down the side, descends the clouds and falls into the ocean
No longer a drop but as big as the sea, travels as far as you can see
He gazes at his work, careful not to melt it,
kicks off his shoes, lets himself fall and careens around the city, laughing
Traces of the ocean follow him everywhere
He looks at me, eyes full: you should see this place at night.

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