here and gone / ben gulyas

no one wants the gone
to hover over them too much—
though some
are more prone
to holding it somewhere
just inside the door,
just under the heart—
my shadow still pumping gas,
a voice talking vegetables
til they come out of their skins—

and sparks go off in your head
like a Chinese new year,
a mile-long exploding dragon
reeking of gunpowder and wine—

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