By Babette Deutsch

Not guns, not thunder,
but a clutter of clouded drums
That announce a fiesta:
abruptly, fiery needles Circumscribe
on the night boundless
Softly, they break apart,
they flake away,
where Darkness, on a svelte hiss,
swallows them.

Delicate brilliance: a bellflower opens, fades,
In a sprinkle of falling stars.
Night absorbs them
With the sponge of her silence.

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