He points on toward the men huddled in the shack shadows
He growls like a supple huge predatory cat
The flames from the trash can are down to ankle height
and the wind seems to be enslaved by this intruder
It seems the cheap talk of the wall lovers made them feel safe
safety no truer than a lie each man a baker' s pastry
The fires down to an inch and the snow curls in
like the hair and way of the modest maiden
Yet so does the unfeeling and faces pale and cold look to where the ice falls
Their liquor bottles empty and their arms folded to bargain with the cold
Their heads bobbing up and down and their nervous pacing
emergency room pacing and up to their pale faces they go again
Have we any air left in our lungs
any blood left in our veins
for it points at us accusingly
We the broken, seeking shelter from the rain
Yet it buries itself under the awning among us
and slowly nibbles on us when we are not looking
not feeling and suddenly we are unconscious
it points to us with a pledge we take with dread
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