—Still brutes? Yes. —Still fools? We?
Of course. Deep January
heavy and forever, way down on us
it sits. Ice-heavy, our needles,
our canopy, sapped. We watched it: the lake
eat the light. All of it. Why
we ask; but nothing. Scraped faces
off the birds, they eat no fish. They
gods of the lake: fish. Under the ice
the gods swim slow, we say.