Tristan Robert Lange

Icicle Sun

What is it like to fly?

Above, the sky is crisp,

Its icicle sun shimmers

Gloomy gray—

Another winter-wary day.

House, not what it used to be,

American arctic asperity—

Arrested development—

Is what’s left of the dream.

The ground—ice solid—

Stained crimson crude

From the fall.

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, March 19, 2026.

Tittu