Duo

I turn my head toward the sound
of that tape, listen, shake.

I still relate to you though
I hold your absence in my hand.

Strange moneyland. Strange heart
of frost, crossed wires.

A screen suffices. You hold
enough control to ward it all off.

None of my devices are enough.
I infill the hole that won't fill.

Such consistent shovelling hurts my hands.
I am weighed-down by demands I can't answer.

Still, I bend well, always travel
toward the wind in my face, away

from the one catching at my back.
Being cold means one feels no lack

and I have none. I have my shovel
and all things I need to keep my body

sweet, moving.  I live -
infill my life with time, give what I can

of what remains mine
in spite of all that shovelling.

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