Phil.<xref ref-type="fn" rid="fn10_62"><sup>i</sup></xref> https://s3-euw1-ap-pe-df-pch-content-public-p.s3.eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/9780203744406/4ef43cf0-2ddd-4d16-bc72-4e1db61a47c1/content/fig0010_C.jpg" xmlns:xlink="https://www.w3.org/1999/xlink"/> Morning comes we’re living inside a fridge The radio batteries are frozen and yesterday’s coffee a brown layer of stone The orange saved for breakfast does not bounce The wood stove is still asleep and windows are frosted like a stained glass church You tell me underneath your army surplus double down sleeping bag the emperor has no clothes and that it’s my turn to start the fire Soon the tide will shift the inlet ice like continental drift and we will be stranded The floor makes exploding sounds I hop in my cheap sleeping bag rigid from the night’s early sweat and with my axe try to break the water in our kettle It’s the Canadian thing to do. (Philip K. Thompson, “The Cabin in Winter”)1