Your signal fires are paling now,
all that luminescent vitriol
sputtering back to the earth like
spent catherine wheels
in the half-lit summer chill,
or the blossoming of fireworks
flowers over the high school fields
of this half-shadowed youth,
pines lingering beyond the goalposts
and the looming levees,
their jagged black spires
like knives aimed towards
impossibly distant stars,
a receding gloom of embers
as the rusting years commence.
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