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.