for I. 

O god of the desublime, allay the vertical penitentes

their limbs, rest them back cold, not in precipitate
but in seed, in potential of hydrogen. Spoon in density

to be sung of their winter’s seed and soak. Sip pond

to suncups, over sunrise. Far from the flat dispatch

of heat, its stench, its wayward ever summer barge

and fallout. Jesus be a river. Be a untainted float
of deliquescent surge. Be saltless and cold.
O pose of hope, allay the waterfall, hear their prayer,

O bed of oxygen, divine surge. Be also brackish sea. Be

seed of the frost, and supercooled. Be shade soup.

Sweet hale of beloved drench and mitochondrial belly,

be flint for the watery flame. Douse out the eventual
crunch, the big scorch, the rip of our primordial anus
and mouth, suckling at the place of eco abundance. O sweet bio teet,

O hygroscopic lordess. Were we to sit still and let ourselves be cold

for hours, wiped of web crack frost, mild sud of the slow glacier,

rimed vat at the edge of rash season, our legs from twitching.

O known keep of tomorrow, might we skill our motor by, pedal
from the crib of our await. O stable evolver, an alms for safe passage,

your earthen cooling, forgive us our erosion. Heal the demanding snows.