Smoke rushes from her lips,
curls away; orange fades,
awaits another breath.

Is she thinking as she watches
the fountain push up,
fall? Orange brightens;

a gray cloud surrounds her.
No one approaches; the evening
crowds don't notice

the way they walk, with a slight
hitch as their feet
leave the ground, and they

rise into the air,
fade into orange,
await another breath.

Andrew Shields

If you've any comments on this poem, Andrew Shields would be pleased to hear from you.

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