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.
