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ISSUE:  Summer 1992
Setting these trees on fire would be redundant.
The flamboyán is a beautiful arsonist dressed
again for some impending destruction. Intrigued,

willing to risk whatever safety they’ve
found in their incognito days, whole towns come
back to life for the occasion. An elaborate

myth rises out of what could have been just another
first evening of summer slowly growing dark.
The road will find its way back to the same city,

the same random gathering of lights at the city’s
edge. Increasingly this road resembles a workhorse,
its rider asleep in the saddle, returning each

night to the barn—the rustle and the scent of hay
like sweet voices written across the brain.
Our own voices wonder: Will we remember to imagine

one another calling when we wake tomorrow,
three hundred miles and a world of fire between us.
Each flamboyán releases its share of dead

flowers. Lining the road, they are alternately
red fists mapping a trail to another season of bad
dreams and an endless fire that will not burn.


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