Ghosts on Independence Day
The Queen Anne's Lace,
the white heat bees
and the weeping flowers—
these we are partial to.
And they spread over the heavens
like you spread over her the night before,
soft in your sweat,
in an act not of love,
but of paying tribute.
It was another decision
in a long line of decisions—
strings tied around each finger,
forming webs that fray
and slip off silently while we sleep.
They grow stronger amidst our neglect
and come to explode
before us tonight.
But it is their remains—
the hovering octopus ghosts
you call them
—that cling to us.
They drift in the sky,
concealing themselves
behind the curtain of night,
illuminated only by
new pyrotechnic tongues
honoring the forgotten.
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