no rain for weeks and heads still on fire /
blessed is rusty condensation in the storeroom /
tapping on our tongues unfolded for the trip down /
everyone runs in a straight line from combust to combust /
tearing past malachite and mantis, phlox and plum, layered in shade below /
skimming the outline of words by each other’s glare /
that flare sent up days ago has yet to arch down /
it’s pin of flame lost amongst the flashes we fan about /
draining oxygen from every public place
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