TWENTY SIX

There is a man with his
Face in snow,
Counting as the world bides
The windward side.
There is another man
Facing him,
With a tenderness,
Embracing hale for the game,
As it goes on.
On his back with a laziness,
Comes out for the night,
People think him crazy.

There is a man whose
Face is snow,
Hand is snow,
Standing cold.
There is another man
Facing him,
Looking drawn,
As stuck as stone
That newborn.
The snow will always fall,
And you’re asking us to turn away
And shun it all and love what?
The wind has no love for the white,
But who are we to take sides.