Union For Wounds Of The Face; Union For Wounds Of The Head
Bumstumble
run.
Heels
in the snow.
Charging
in open cold.
Union des blessés
de la Face et de la Tête.
Lord,
its position now:
smoke
in its hair; stale clothes;
fear
swallowing alpine air.
Gulping
it up. Bellies distended.
That
hard, heavy sound
of
running spreads no
further
in the winter
than
the line lying dead,
