until your tongue and mouth go numb
from the white, christian snow
kicked up by skaters,
you are borne up on hymns
from the congregation
singing Gloria!
in the middle of the rink
all around, the rooms of ice are bounded by wooden doors
like souls are held in flesh


changeling children
ranked as cousins,
second, third and so on,
lodge themselves in the footwell
and take over the pedals
over highway overpasses and exchanges,
over clover-leaves that you can only see from heaven