A fire goes out in the sky;
stove of the firmament, your
extinguishing embers seethe
cords of smoke, viscous as
rain swollen and gorged with heat
like steam from black knit caps
or the ghost of breath: the soul's
proof manifest as a cloud.
All fixed points blur
into gray and mud that
flood rough-shod canvas shoes;
they show sodden socks, unless
awkwardly shuffled steps
hide the slowly fraying insoles.
The rubber wears an asymmetrical
abscess where I walk unbalanced
by my Guatemalan book-bag
dully faded red-black zig-zags
swing the scholarly weight
of paper, spiral bound, glued to boards,
or scratched black with ink; sorry,
swung, not swinging anymore.
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