My tongue is slack
with sky-weight,
too slow to move
poem-beams.
It’s hard now,
from mind’s haven,
to drag the swag
Odin swindled.

My family stands
at its end, stops
storm-thrashed
on a forest’s fringe.
No man is hale who
hefts his kinsman’s joints
off his ground-sprawl,
carries his corpse.