The table lies drained of light,
a horizontal tombstone for my only city,
swept of gaudy dreams and spare leaves
and spare lives, empty streets filled by wild winds.
What world is this that facelessly turns
to recognize troubles I've never voiced?
The parade goes on down the avenue.
Rough-edged cliffs mimic the sea in motion
behind the house. Slowly the little flames
begin to open as ash rains from them,
I shut the door and walk out into the afternoon.
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