in cold places

i want to feel the weight of standing
at the foot of a mid-ocean ridge

i’ve always stood one foot over the edge,
haunted by the thought—would i step off

and what if i would?

i’m haunted by the memory of the split (in me)
and far north: the sunlight, 24 hours awake—
(you could escape the sunset)

& what if i really would?

the crack between would only increase—
me, thinking, i could, so easily