We three kids squirm into a sleepsack
then roll recklessly, hilariously, downslope
bouncing past icefalls
like frozen spaghetti in tomato sauce.
Tumble away from home, such daring
but only as far as the old port
where we wriggle, bruised and chortling,
back to our separate selves, to swarm and scavenge.
We climb to the top of the
level with the glacier’s crevassed and crumbling lip,
sprawl in the distant light of both suns
and pool our meager gleanings, boast of our daring.
How long before some parent
comes looking for us?
Our air would run out first, but we are hungry
so we slip in the farm tent’s lock, strip off our dusty suits
and pretend we’ve been inside all day.