Pier-lipped ferris wheel spins
its sparks lighting
Jack and I alone
in the afternoon
on this icy
shore.
Our fathers
work sawdust-filled
factories,
dad’s hands cut
up and stuck by
twisted saw blades, flack
of maple lodged
sharp in the V
between index and
fuck you finger.

It’s Jack and I
here and
a single ancient
ice-boat
cleaves through
Lake Michigan’s
ice-shelf,
sleeping fish
beneath spat
with frail rays
of sun
blown-out
by the steel-gray
ceiling of water.

Our mothers
at home wash pots
to rust,
watch the day
turn from

ash To
dark ash,
school speared dead
by Midwest winter’s
midnight sheet.

Now we watch
the last slake
of moored boat’s
hull pinched
unforgiving.

Now we listen
to mid-lake
swells where
water splits
winter’s coat
and joins
wind.

Now we hear
the ice break
and this
tiny ocean is
a dirty
window pane,

so when
we stare
at the water
we stare
at the clouds
and the sparrows
beneath them
drowning
inside.