there are very often fireworks
and you can read that metaphorically
if you want to, but what I mean
is fireworks. Of the sort that
blow up in your hand. Of the
sort that are lit and smell of gunpowder.
Of the sort that leave black marks
on your fingers after hours spent lighting
them in the back yard. With your
brother. In the heat of the day.
Before his conviction. Of something else
entirely.

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