The leaves are gone.  Wind rejoices in
Their leaving for their dance betrays;
Painting hints of body on his shame.

Shoulders cringe under iced breath
ravaging this frigid, emptying street.
Chimes to the right sing winds intent,

To flee this memory, falling behind,
To allow us to lie in a contrived bliss
Like those wreaths on those graves.

The leaves are gone.  Wind rejoiced in
their leaving for their dance betrayed:
painting hints of body on his shame.

A witness of this carnage, he whirled
in helplessness, sharing horrid chaos
with us despite our hands over our ears.

Shoulders cringe beneath iced-breath
ravaging this frigid, manicured yard.
Chimes to the right sing winds intent

to flee this memory, fall far away,
to lie in a contrived complacency like
these plastic wreaths on these graves.