I am a mean ugly person
crisscrossed by frozen rivers, 

leaning into you, forcing you
to skate out across the ice.

When you're gone
it's me they'll see, 

briefly, in your soaring loops
and lumpy lower cases. 

Patented in 1888, 
the year Harpo Marx was born, 

you like him pretend to be mute, but
your blood is my voice.