John Williams

July the 4th

A dog is always tethered to what remains
of a forested stump.
Children’s wings, temporarily unclipped,
coast them over a well-lit field
where strangers gather
and name themselves “town”.
Nobody hears the church bells
clocking in and out
or the roofs of their homes crumble
over the perfect noise of spectacle.

There are flags bursting from poles,
taking the place of hands.
There are sparklers where the heart should be.

For a single day
in what was once an empty field—
and will be again—
we are building ourselves a joyous unity
from confetti.

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