Dark as birds, the kind
              sober young men come
                            quickly when you go down

on the ice, rush to see
             for themselves
                         whether you rise

broken or whole,  forever
             changed or unfazed
                           by such a fall, the world

or at least the axel
             it spins on all unspun    
                          and you the mistress

of the moment, the ice
             as apt as any metaphor
                          for death