Firecrackers pop in bursts of white light and smoke;
a cymbal crash reverberates in air: mortality’s
the incubator of dreams. Steaming green beans,
or screwing a wrought-iron hook into a post,
or screwing a wrought-iron hook into a post,
I do not expunge the past but ignite the fuse
to a whistling pinwheel. A girl sways under
to a whistling pinwheel. A girl sways under
