The knot of fire stuttering in the fly,
the filament in the bulb that shines
for seconds after the switch flips,
these lights are as lost as the city's
neon in the moment after sunrise,
lost as the eyes, that gather dark like
a dying constellation, slued away,
from a body and its radiance.
Is there anyone left to remember
her the way the fragile glass remembers
heat? Maybe not. But maybe sometime
you recall her face, an ember rising,
maybe then you call to mind the flame.
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