January rises coldly from our ashes
dropping from combustions.
Yellow spiders stretching
spin abrupt webs
and feeding small light
the dark gorge of the year.
Appease the hungry past;
you spark a cautious match
and idly flickering,
pendulate light from eyes to hands.
"Will this one explode right here again?"
I laughed, "Well, do you feel lucky?"
"Never at beginning anything."
The flame eats downward the gun-powered,
friction-tongued match, dropped to the ground,
the smoke climbs in fading circles.
Gazing from the rooftop upturned faces
are canvases soaking light paints
coruscating through color spectrums.
Screeching from bottles:
booms of fire work
broad-out rose petals
fold on blooming constellations:
opening doors of light
connect caught stars in spreading
webs and circles.
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