Then,
all of a sudden,
we are here,
perched on a frozen solid ground.
Wind slowly whirls away,
there is no rain,
it only snows slowly down.
Food is plenty,
We eat big portions in short intervals.
A few die every day.
The ones left, are left more to eat.
We will have to eat more;
there is no way to store the dead.
We are bodies inside bodies,
moving in a mute tune.
We chew in dark in day light.
We bend to rip a strip,
from the soft inside of an arm,
the soft curve of a neck, or a handful of the innards.
We are perched on a frozen, solid ground,
heads whirling bodies twirling,
swollen in a fair skin.
We drink the juice of the fresh dead,
eat the ones closer to rot.
Wind snatches bits and whirls slowly away.
There is no rain.
It’s snowing, slowly, down.
.
We are thankful for the veiling frost.
Because if anything , anything at all,
We dread this smell.
2003
Toronto