He is the man with the axe with its white edge.
He was born to a time of fire.
He took a pickaxe and walked to the rail
track and asked for work; and he stood
by the sparks and forging fire, standing
there as if the heat is food, pure food.
Continue here Fire | The American Poetry Review
He was born to a time of fire.
He took a pickaxe and walked to the rail
track and asked for work; and he stood
by the sparks and forging fire, standing
there as if the heat is food, pure food.
Continue here Fire | The American Poetry Review
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