By Peter Halstead

Even as the day is now
Turning icicles to dripping lights,
Boomeranging stars from boughs,
Triangulating from the heights

A coruscating daze
That ends in earthbound hues,
Prismatic solar wraiths
That with the frozen gutter fuse,

Arrays of jeweled stalactites
Sprung from frozen rays of sun—
This confused and blinding sleight
Of hand, where evaporation

Wrings cyclones from the clouds,
Leaves just tiny souvenirs
Of sky’s enormous shrouds,
Of passion in the spheres,

Where transparent space surrounds
The very fire it erodes
And puts the air on solid grounds,
With whose facets it explodes.


An incrustation is a deposit of sediment, of minerals leached from water that heat has evaporated. It’s often a kind of jewel, through which light dazzles. It’s the glittering inside of a gem whose facets reflect the sun. Here, it’s drops at the end of an icicle, water wrung from sky, frozen by heat, which reflect the sun which made them, a phenomenon sprung from its opposite. Its inner core of energy explodes, but it also explodes, or exposes, the contradictions in the air, the antitheses of which air is made.