drop the cupola
in this light a beautiful thought is
naught but a butterfly with a fighter escort
ground attack on a life pockmarked with
burrs off the molten metal pouring forth
what is a solar mass ejection compared to this
the one-sidedness of a red face held fast against
the desire to back away from the ladle’s crust
that splats irate upon the hot moulding sand
feet clogged in wood and white with the sherbet
that is spiked with salt to ease the cramps
of a day spent in this smoking foundry
the afterbirth lying final upon lucifer’s anvil
fettling in the white noise of a red end
until the flatulence of the exploding beds
spits dust in the face of a resting seat and
for the length of the top shop it reverberates
with an eruption of men in their element
the iron lines of a supernova arrive where
no god sets the agenda and on looking around
the white gasses vent through the roof
where the moon travels a lonely grey
away to the demise its own settling
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