It covers everything， a glossy¹ January rind

    along tires. Sunny days have brought it out，

    burned away the ice， left

    the calcified² tidelines to gloat

    on the hoods³ and sun-warm trunks

    of cars queued up along the curb⁴，

    parking close as they can get

    to each other， to the raised

    sidewalk that's buried

    beneath the dirt crust next to the neon-lit

    sign for the funeral home.

    The body of the boy we knew is still

    inside， the cheeks teased

    back to cheery life with rouge⁵.

    The ice on the canal

    the faulty floor through which he descended⁶

    blazing on the back of his Arctic Cat

    is black as slate⁷

    which means it's thin

    and boys on the shore

    throw aimless stones that yield

    ricochets with laser sounds.

    The outdoor rink is bare， festooned

    with bits of the Canadian flag

    fragments of the maple⁸ leaf

    glistening⁹ starlike after storm.