i

The ground will not let us in. The sky 
has shut us out. And so we step
in and out of sleep between ground 
and sky, walking into the shapeless north.
The ruts of other carts are frozen hard.
The road is lumpy with dropped hats,
dolls, worn-out shoes, the things that 
got too much or were no use.
We think all the time of the boat.
We do not think about what lies behind.
When it snows we think that snow 
at sea level is very rare. When a pine 
crashes down in our path and we struggle 
to haul our cart over it we think of the wood 
that's used for shipbuilding, the clatter 
of boots on the timber deck, the honey 
varnish of the curved interior walls.
When we lie down to sleep at night,
tenting ourselves against the indifference
of the stars, we think of the slow swell
of the sea, of being rocked to sleep
and forgetfulness in the warm belly
of the ship that waits in the north.

ii

The forested, snow-dusted hills 
are as grey as a stubbly chin.
A hawk turns in the white sky, and we lie
like carrion, a rough scrawl of limbs on the road.