Cold pours in over the tops of her boots. The river is

At the point beyond which it’s too late to leave, and

When I look back at what projects this I against the page,

The sounds that rattled against those walls: an old man reading aloud

This is what it came to: staring at the ground, mind blank,

In your memory it appears as a still: the water streaming off

Think before you speak, he would say, glaring over the table to

Strange tongue, stubbed with words, dark with hunger, can’t speak. Stout