Moon in the sky unmoving
Ice on the barren plain
Three thousand miles from hearth to hearth,
If any still remain
Knock, and the door collapses
A corpse in the dust, and cans,
More than two arms can encompass.
Fuel, for that rusted van?
Wrest a still from the wreckage
Plunder and break and burn
Bask by the flame and the brew-pot
Refine. Find a key that turns
A stall, a shudder, and silence.
Steel, copper, vinegar. Hope.
Hour and tinkering hour.
Despair. Down tools.
Was that smoke?
Grumbling, shuddering moving,
Load luggage, “shotgun!”, and drive.
Race the wind — clutch the ice — skid — spin