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SHANE McCAULEYFirefighterIn this desperate smoke of eveningEach is on his own against a violentBut unmalevolent enemy.We have already lost the sun.The wind changes. There are unnameableThings inside us.Death is taunting usWith a vast red blanket.The air itself begins to melt.I turn and run. The firstExulting flameLeaps on to my ankleLike a small flickering spur.WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989 93