Sub-Zero Math

The landlord says the furnace is a beast

that needs its rest, so I count my ribs

through two sweatshirts and a thin wool vest.

The windows sweat until the moisture turns to frost

and the math of survival gets harder to trust.

Out back, a plastic bucket caught the rain

before the cold snapped it shut like a trap.

I put my boot down hard, seeking some grip,

and hear the structural surrender of the surface,

the jagged cry of water trying to be stone.

A white starburst maps the impact point,

fractures radiating out in the dirty gray.

It’s fifteen degrees and the world is failing.

I look at the star in the ice and realize

I am the only thing left that hasn't split yet.