Grit

There is too much sea spit
in the glue that holds us,
there is too little grit in my resolve.
Not another step through the sludge!
I lift my chewing gum foot,
freeze; walk the snapping stalagmites,
crunch through a gravel of ice,
and all for the freshness of snow.
I will not melt a milky thaw,
put you in my mouth to make words
drip from a husky tongue, until
the first bud is a sprig of green,
gently held, in the sharpest beak.
I am all edge; the blades of my skates
or the cut of the sledge, two
tracks speed ahead, straight.