Miles in a straight-across snow,
wind loud on each hill
roaring HER roaring WERE,
running in hooded seclusion,
running in hooded seclusion,
the breath a cold burn in the chest—
how the blood steams in a kill.
We ran off the edge
and that changed it all
inside inside the norm;
each stride is a name,
the chest a poor shield,
running alone in a squall.
inside inside the norm;
each stride is a name,
the chest a poor shield,
running alone in a squall.
