Imaginary Icebergs No mountain upon another lays its head, often the sun bends low across the blue, they are lost too—those enormous bridges in unseen reflections— because they are only imagined, lost in flowing thought, sublime and motionless in the ether, unlike the snow in which it lives today—

in descriptors lined up against the heel of the sharpest slate, yet never false: to lean into the colors of ice. Quiet would work, were it not for all the red, then gather pink blooms from the across the skaters fly above sharp-wrought ice.”

• Marianne Moore