Kent Leatham

D. S. Butterworth

Absolution

At minus four hundred and sixty degrees

molecular motion ceases, and atoms freeze,

elusive electrons in their probability clouds

form fogs of ice, an interstellar shroud

we can only call absolute, zero signifying the void

enclosed, not the inked circle whose presence eludes

the horrific blank. And for all those burning stars,

for all the planets with their molten cores,

and all the factories with their smoke,

and the houses and their stoves and broken

breads, and kettle and furnace and lamplit

rooms, and sun rinsed faces on bright-

eyed mornings and kissing evening fires—

the average temperature of the universe

is only six degrees above absolute zero,

or four hundred and fifty-five degrees below

the point where water freezes. Fire knows well

how to hide: within the dead dust ball

of the moon is a heart 2,700 degrees quick,

while here at home travelers to the Antarctic

emerge from tents with 15 seconds before

their clothes freeze solid in shapes they wear

all day, the nerves of their mouths expired, teeth

split to pieces. It’s almost beyond belief,

and more than ample cause for doubt:

that wedges of warmth levering the cold

could brave these hardened skies to search

time’s wounds and find the tender heat of words.