Night after night
gazing at the fire
in the 44 gal. drum
where the air is contained
we will move closer
the talk veers up in sparks
the treachery of bosses
the worker's screwed
anger doesn't work
the driver just called in
a cow down at Violet Town
the track must be cleared
it will be moved away
we calmly change the subject
there will be no absolutes
how photography is an art
all birds are a fluke
do we get another shot
the moon sets behind the tree
water is poured on errant coals
smoke rises and dies
until tomorrow
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