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Forges At Gonshohocken

ISSUE:  Autumn 1993
From the bluff we would watch
the molten iron’s flare,
vats of aurora drowning low stars.
Behind us the Plymouth
ticked in the dark,
the breeze we came for
rose from the valley.

You were younger
than I am now, father
on the edge of a drop
with his son who sits
tonight imagining touch
of tufted grass, your hand
light on my shoulder.

We were always alone
with stars and glimmer
of distant homes,
and I don’t hear your voice
or even the hum of wheels
coming or going. On that height
in a stillness of heat
we watched the glow
pulse and fade into steel.


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