December sweats in south  
west wind. Breathy 
splotches of mouth water  
deceive us into thinking it rained 
on the asphalt. Little swarms 
awaken at sunset, white balls  
of fire. Terribly mistaken,  
I'm so sorry, a possum 
caught crossing the tracks  
delivers only its head, its put-out   
tongue to the other side, neck  
stretched homeward. I duck  
under a branch and climb up 
the rocky rise after my boy.  
Dogged in the pursuit of a lost  
railroad spike. Only robbers  
in sight, we listen for the train.
                        

There's no way to rush recovery. 
The body waits to feel all right, 
for the stars in its spine to align. 
 Meanwhile, lie still. Listen  
to the furnace. Its sigh goes on 
for minutes. Afterwards, 
the room feels warm. It's December 
out there in the dark, but not 
inside the house. Not beneath the blanket. 
There's no way to rush inspiration: 
The spirit either stirs inside or it doesn't. 
Outside, the wind is zero miles 
per hour. December waits. 
There's no way to rush recovery.