he is holding himself in the dark
the dark is the warmth, the choke of cold gone,
tears dried on the forehead, the skin of his face.
outside the horn blows, and the dogs rouse their wings,
the armor is polished and the spears are consecrated,
the buffeting tempest of wings over him,
he knows what it is to be small.

in the kitchen the light is yellow like the skin of an onion. noone is home. he can go to the closet. in the back are his old shoes. they have walked too far, and must be thrown away. so much change, no change: his father has lost his job. it is cold outside and frost has broken the stems of the early spring. he hears the footsteps and cannot move, is frozen in the closet. noone is home. he can hear footsteps. he can go to the closet. they have walked too far. he pauses at the door and the shadow comes over him, the face of frost, the stems young green better than gold broken in their case of ice. the shadow is closer and his spirit flies away, to freeze in the snow, to be numb before it must come home. there is screaming. in the kitchen the light is yellow like the skin of an onion. noone is home.