Fuck you, english majors

It is
You are
I am
Cold, cold to blind the soul

Sea glass smooth where razor edged and rough where polished
Silica returning to the dust from which it was made

It is
Impersonal and immediate and in singularity
Hoar frost in the chasm
Cathedrals beneath the ice
Man’s strangest preservatives in niches in the caverns at the turning of the earth

I wonder how deeply it can be found
How old the sand
How fresh the surf
How long I could scoop handfuls of chilled stone until I find no evidence of my people

Is it
Are you
Am I
Cold as the forests of stone lie crumbling