A tattered sofa in gray-burnished winter
collapses softly into itself near
the boarded-up warehouse,
unmoored in a nest of untidy shadows,
yellow stuffing hemorrhaging through
the split seams in filthy cushions,
stained by generations of unnameable
ghost drinks and fluids,
discarded decaying in the faded entropy
of the Queen Anne's Lace,
with the styrofoam scraps and the shattered glass.
The seizing electric flames lick chemicals
from the combustible surfaces,
sending pillars of exotic spectrums
and vivid smoke skyward,
through frosted dusk air,
to evaporate into a black starless void.
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