In the middle of December …
Nate Klug
This early the garden’s bare …
Not, this time, to infer …
So won a name in this place, …
Where i-95 meets the Pike, …
Not seeing me, not even looking, …
As with this Jet Ski family …
Something blurred, warmed …
To stand for once …
Off rows of windshields …
By new names …
It hides its edges …