The headline doesn’t faze me, stretching 
in my underwear and thinking of Rome:
the arch a hollow monument. 
The local company that extracts blocks 
for ice palaces in Saint Paul 
built a small castle on our town beach. 
Firemen sprayed its archway and turrets 
with colors, like syrup on snow cones.
In a brief warm spell last week, however,
they swung the wrecking ball. There goes winter,
my wife lamented. The children shrugged.
A false finish. For it is fifty-six degrees 
lower now. A false sense of line; I run the race 
not to conform. I try to mold this idea

deep in the train of runners as I curse
how the winter trek dashes
out and back, while the summer course
loops twelve miles around the lake. Past, 
present and future are one—my mantra
fails me as my feet press through sand 
on the icy dirt road. We moved here 
to escape the straight corridors, skyways,
pipelines of the city; escalators, towers, 
the dense pre-sorted blocks. Here, four round
seasons individually known. But today, 
in this line of folks, you’re either 
a balaclava or stiff beard at seventeen below. 
I curse how my children irreversibly grow.

DAVID KILPATRICK is a poet who divides his time between Minneapolis and Spicer, Minnesota. He recently completed his MFA in poetry at Hamline University and, even so, still has a high opinion of Terry. David also holds a PhD in Renaissance Art and has taught college art history.