Why can’t we pitch in this place?
Chaff hands on ropes, our boots flayed by snow,
fine silt of breath clouds our frayed overcoats.
Black eyed from the wind, everything soaked.
You stand at the edge of a wood,
staring at bark, listening to shrubs.
Gently I tap on the side of your nose.
You're asleep on your feet and I’m comatose.