No foot could endure it, shoes are too thin. Broken glass, broken bottles, heaps of them burn. Over those fires no one could walk: those flaring acids and variegated bloods. The city burns tears. A gathered lake of aquamarine begins to smoke. The city burns guilt. —For guilt-disposal the central heat must be this intense. Diaphanous lymph, bright turgid blood, spatter outward in clots of gold to where run, molten, in the dark environs green and luminous silicate rivers. A pool of bitumen one tycoon wept by himself, a blackened moon. Another cried a skyscraper up. Look! Incandescent, its wires drip. The conflagration fights for air in a dread vacuum. The sky is dead. (Still, there are creatures, careful ones, overhead. They set down their feet, they walk green, red; green, red.) — Elizabeth Bishop
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