Walk forward

The inevitable snow drift blocks
the path of everyone who seeks to cross
dagger held forward to slice out
a path but the ice is so thick
the blade snaps in the crushing wind
the feeble bleed of that air we took
from the bottle left behind
that man with his edgy compass breadth
sitting under a woodpile, effortlessly
drinking old vodka from a sock
rubbing his half formed beard with
fingers tarred by times forgotten
points of contact each point she touched
and each point was curved just accurate
the turmoil they sought justice by
covering up the dead and then lying about their wareabouts