The toucan on top of the glacier
Has shaved all the ice into feathers
With its nose like a hatchet
With its eye like a dead mess of fluff

And an man made out of the burnt worth of matches
With the self-esteem of something that’s been burned
With the limited locomotion of the martyr
Has declared himself the futile cross on Eric’s grave

Eric is kept from his grave by his eyes, in this dream
His grave in the glacier
In the stuck-together fluff-and-feathers
Where everything adheres to everything because ice sticks

His view-point is smushed up against
The surface where the scene is stuck together
A few pink distances are trying to warm up
The merger where peeled eyes

Wet gets tighter touching ice