The Torch by Brook Bhagat

On the knife-edge of fast willow back into the spin, chin 
up, catch the cold blade of your skate and pull up, up, other 
hand on, just a second of dizzy and you’re 
in it, no other but fear and then nothing, 
no one, you’re lost, muscles 
lungs and thoughts melting into 
timelessness, form into 
formlessness, as empty 
and full as the long 
liquid note of electric 
guitar spiraling over 
the ice at the speed 
of light.