the face peeks
just out from the shadow of
stiff brisk brick.
the head – its squinting eyes, its
blistered lips, cracked from wind and
overuse, its gray jelly belly –
warmed by hints of day.
the rest, though, the
body, stands motionless in the shade.
blood still moves, but flows
floe cold. toes frigid,
rigid in iceberg shoes.
hands in empty pockets, holding
nothing, warming nothing but