—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.
But I don’t believe it. They dead,
and so’s the light. And snow,
so many terribles falling. But snow
a comet’s tail, maybe, in our hair?
And maybe then where the light
is going? —No. A fault then? —Reckon.
Reckon we involved? —Yes.
And violently? —Violently.