Guilders bought and built while 
warbirds fought and spat and smoked.

It's a dichotomy: can people change
or does every rock remain the same
after it's been turned to dust and concrete?

Don't call it anything
until it reveals its rueful stature,
and then wish it might have revealed itself
after you were gone. 

Under brandy towers the plodding dilettantes 
drink to their shelves
and all the novel things
that might just work
if there were only the will to make it so. 

Behind sapphire skies, two scorched eyes, 
in shadow to heal and unwilling 
to convert the sun's energy 
into something that would demolish its mirror.

Bluebirds chirped and nested 
while cars coughed and spat and smoked.

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