I hear the reports of fireworks—
or thunder—too early
for the fourth. Storm clouds unfurl

slowly in the smoke of their own
incineration, burning flags
draped over the coffin of the sky’s

west wing, obfuscating the truth.
Which I might as well tell you
is that I live for these moments of absolute

solitude, dogs already caged
inside the house, darkness gathering
in the arms of the rosebush,

arms already empty. Blossoms so soon
spilled, cake the elbow of the sidewalk,
dead-end receptacle for lavender
and white, piercingly
white lips.

………………………………Farther down
the fence line, honeysuckle leaves
lift up the beetles
in prayer which sleep and feast upon them,
little iridescent angels of death,
mandibles grinding like teeth.

– Cameron Morse