There are two Who bend the river, One with a crooked shoulder. The other, With two carcass feet, The sinew stitched From left to right Drags what he can, Back and forth From placid minnow water. Between the hut, Absinthal cold Clings to fur around Their ears, The thud as axe Swings quickly past. Unknown, the wind is Chilled above. All noses Past the point of caring; A foal kicks shivers Down wet flanks, While mother feeds a hungry Four. One's leathered hand Misses the chill– A space That lost its unity; A vow that tumbles down the river, A digit caught in winter's melt. Its arctic shell that's Sinking, sinking– Bobbing Like a spiny cone. One that's Broken. Cold. And fat.