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Freed like branches,
the snow's arm,
with a pained expression,
lifting the sheet
off a hand of dead water.
Picking their way through
gaps in fire,
groups of rubbish, split open
with razors, or tied up
like smells, released as waste.
Fake investigators, oppressed
with secrets, search for
clues behind a dead tramp's eyes.
Prodding its mouth with cheap
fluid and flaming sticks,
the colder of
rivers, the deader of languages.