Fawn fall on your yard
like a yardstick going soft in the damp
waitresses cycle through clusters of trees
on a path of risen ice,

flinging bits of money into themselves
while the sun eats the daylight
and the world starves for it.
The windows glazed with breath
square off against the inside/outside
that is killing and preserving us,

lopsidedly dancing the machine of humanity
into a veil of cool black plastic.
And the bodies are taken out by those
who can still move, and frozen
in the river of frozenness
that has overwhelmed and underwhelmed
the real flowing thing.