Who hungers for breakfast
after a cold sleep.
I prefer the colder
días myself,
these years are headed for an
Ice Age anyway.
The tusks of woolly mammoths
frozen in the blank tundra are shaking,
their molars
smiling like stones the size of
fists, pointing us toward the poles, the word,
the direction we’re supposed to march
slowly as a humanness, I draw a map in the
hemisphere
with my snoring. My bare
feet are useful as blood upon
a cave wall, thinking or unthinking,
seeing without seeing.
We will have 1,000 days.
We will burn 1,000 times,
you will somehow shut in 1,000 tubes
and shout into 1,000 tunnels,
and your rodent faces
will mourn.
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