Ice’s Future is a Flower

My mouth, where this ice cube's transmogrification
commences at Calvin's insistence (Hobbes' great 
grandchild, bound to laugh in Leviathan's face
and smote him upon an iceberg), cannot help
but bite down at the critical instant, saving 
several shards to travel deeper down my 
coldly caffeinated throat, a threshold 
electrified by the possibility of 
collaborative speech, a 
conversation whose
partners will melt
between eyes and
lips and teeth.