Thursday, December 18, 2014

SOLSTACE

Discreetly, reluctant—
dead 

of December—soughing 
to yield 
its 

slight harvest;

empty grass schoolyards—bootstep 
mottled,

stiff, anemic, stone-
dead—

save 
for—on and off

the soft elegance—a
motion 
in sound—of a few gunmetal 

flagpoles pinging
in light wind—
and

of passing motortraffic—
invisibly

motivating curbside
tingling—
of

tiny Jim Beam bottles.

No comments:

Post a Comment

HOW DO YOU FEEL?