Clouds Over the Tribes

by Benjamin Nardolilli

 

The presents of a blast furnace

Settles across the city,

Soot and embers, but a sunset too,

Prematurely reddened

By the ironworks in the distance.

 

There is nothing redeemable

For the ears to listen to,

The rusty screech of metal and fire

Is impossible to avoid,

We talk in taverns to cover it up.

 

When winter comes, the sparks

Warming up the dark air

Will be welcome for their halo,

Today, they only add heat

To our nights and forge a sweat.

 

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Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.