Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Fire brigade

Two a.m.
The alarm bells are deafening,
Like big continuous cars tamping
upon each other.
The night is not young,
the sticks hold us up
like matchboxes in a row
we are not young
but among the ramp of bodies
a hair lone, black like the night
flails, and pulls the layer of silk
under the cover of the stars
'It was just a burnt out toast bread', the white face explains
The fire brigade handles no jam
and while the world burns
We recline on our sticks
we watch as they all run to save
the building from the dark.

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