I turn my head toward the sound
                   of that tape, listen, shake.

                   I still relate to you though
                   I hold your absence in my hand.

                   Strange moneyland. Strange heart
                   of frost, crossed wires.

                   A screen suffices. You hold
                   enough control to ward it all off.

                   None  of my devices are enough.
                   I infill the hole that won't fill.

                   Such consistent shovelling hurts my hands.
                   I am weighed-down  by demands  I can't answer.

                   Still, 1 bend well, always travel
                   toward the wind in my face, away

                   from  the one catching at my back.
                   Being cold means one feels no lack

>s"^              and 1 have none. I have my  shovel
                   and all things I need to keep my body

                   sweet, moving.  1 live -
                   infill my life with time, give what I can

                   of what remains mine
                   in spite of all that shovelling.
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