When I heard the creaking, aching groan,
I imagined a human origin—crowbar, splintered wood,
imminent bludgeoning.  But ice against the shore

meant no harm, its mournful cry an embrace,
as I lay outside his play of dreams where the day’s repast
turned upside down, found someone who looked like him

in chase after one who looked like me who wanted
desperately for the fox to be the hound and so, he said,
next morning, I must have been him who wanted to be me

who wanted to be loved. Do you?  he asked.  Beyond,
I saw where ice had churned against the shore, the water
now calm.  I tried to, but couldn't, describe the sound.
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