Right below the tree line, snow in patches,/ sap split trunks that burst in flames/share a nuance with seared cities./ I open the log book/ to a  place where London/flaming, perished in 1666./Rubble from stampedes by countless mobs/ compromise their flesh/ in return for porcelain sinks/I walked miles and miles, in a forest,/allied with vapor and a smell of quick mud/ I give you mobs and wildfires colliding

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