By Jack Brummet
Sitting
sad and contemplative at a funeral,
I think
about the firefall of light I saw today
Pouring from a rising skyscraper.
The welder is a star thrower,
And
constellations of pale yellow sparks
Tumble
from a heaven of beams and girders
Strung
with wire and pipe.
Those sparks are like her words,
Falling
down iron bars
To disappear like fugitives
In
a white lake of sparks.
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