It's not the bombs Of light that thrill, big thumps Drummed at us, time-delayed, From our white-out war against the sky, But it's the shapes We marvel at, Pink and gold fritillaries, ascending Flares that burst, Silver machine-gun asterisks of hail, Rose, aquamarine. Another explodes, And a day-glow cube races toward us As from some far-off Galaxy—or is it just a huge TV Flittering out? It's Christmas Someone shouts, when a smiley face Blooms red and green Out of the drifting fog of smoke That looks backlit Like a movie set. Now a glowing willow of sparks Rains for what feels An infinite pause before the dying Cells revive, Re-animate In what looks like whirligigs of sperm Swimming intently For the Earth's darkened ovum Where they fall, fade. On the river Yachts and cruise boats dawdle Under the show Safely awash in waves of flame, While above a blimp Blazons Old Glory In the digital clouds. Somebody Calculates each burst Amazingly for such effect So we stay hushed Or cheer, or whoop Like the man shouting behind us Yes, The mock love-cry Making some of us laugh, In each eye The same blinding Flashes that fury the skyline's Window mirrors, As buildings keep standing In a powder shower From launch and barge. Look: the last charges blast their tiger's face Into the night As though we each were the tamer It lunges for— O I forget the name Of the mauled: Was it Siegfried or Roy? Behind us, a child Screams into the bestial teeth, But only for joy.
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