The presents of a blast furnace
Settles across the city,
Soot and embers, but a sunset too,
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.
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.