the way the reeds
bend too far in the wind,
and the ice isn’t strong enough
even in winter
to hold us,
anymore.
the way there is ice,
and chill
in my very bones, and yours
and my breath, before
my face, is anything but
transparent.
The single path that calls
itself a way, and the single
mother who wishes she hadn’t
died last night. The fortress
left behind, ruins that are
fading helplessly alone
into the snow:
more fools than wise.
Copper growing brittle
at the last sliver of sun,
rusting into iron, from stone.
more plastic than bone.