The sun is but a frozen ball,
It rises slow or not at all,
Illuminating icy skies,
The early bird’s the bird that dies.

All around us shivery white,
It’s too cold to sleep tonight,
If we freeze before we wake,
We pray the warmth our souls to take.

Breathing short, exhaling phantoms,
Corporal gaunt with unsung anthems,
Shattered glass, embrittled bones,
Teeth chatter over frigid groans.

The air is sharp, it slices through
Anything to get at you,
Don’t look for the shuddering sun,
So close to death we’re better numb.

there’s not much time left—
            it has finally happened:

clothes are worth more
            worn than new

gasoline is more affordable
            than water—

folks of all types, shapes,
            and sizes
have figured this out,
                        at last:

that handheld shiny hard
            death-flingers—
with the slightest movement of
                        the finger—

and the small chunks of metal
            that accompany them—

are easier to come by,
            and to use,

than the pen and the page.

(fresh bodies piled up by their
favorite rivers, each one sworn—
            to the furthest depths
            of their over-extended
            oceanic universe
            imaginations—
they never heard of the sword)