In every moment
where time circles
and nothing is your country
but Fourth of July,
where heat is custard yellow
and the date of forever
is your 16th year,
when you declare
a storm brewing
with lightning before it cracks.
And this summer
like it can never be again,
was never before,
and crying became jazz
inside yourself,
perpetual,
every note a rapture
of independence.
The zenith of a sigh,
a red shift wailing
sharps and flats,
your horn sweet with passion,
love and dying,
in monsoons of sound,
drunk, that was a perfect day.
Eyes full of light,
lids closing,
like exhausted notes,
after image
of freedom in our hearts
on the Fourth of July.