we come and go by the flares
of campfires, full
of ghosts with huge wounded hearts
John Haines
The snow here is
not deep, yet I imagine,
below the surface, that
generations of tiny foxes
are frozen to their
delicate skeletons.
Their fine bones have
partially turned to emeralds.
Their silver teeth glisten
in the arctic night. On
the wind come the
old voices, warning whales
of the dead. I too
stop and listen. My fingers
are cracked and almost
numb. Then the old ghosts
rise from the ice
like the great gray birds.
Their eyes empty,
they carry their cold tales
to the frightened cities
of the south.
Alan Soldofsky
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