[POEM]: The 4th of July

The 4th of July is hidden
in a box of sundries
beneath a worthless curtain
which
on account of being clumsily battered for years by flaccid sunbeams
has been rendered devoid of reds,
its once healthy blues given way to an acrid, semisynthetic green
(whose existence is a travesty to the very concept of “color”
if you ask me).

And yet
all the delegates are present here
though the watchman decries his post
and I’m suspicious of the wounded man
—who turns elevens into sevens—
aching though he may be
beneath the weight of history.

I am lost to history.
For instance:
Where is my Fertile Crescent?
Did I really exchange it for a few sessions of awkward, menial sex and Coming Home Early from The Celestial Buffet of the Great Self?
If so,
can you remind me why?
Is it because you can never truly seduce a soul in exile?

Furthermore,
are pumpkins really that shape?
I am at a loss for shapes.
Even now as I write this hymn
on graph paper
where every possible point of contact
with the world of forms is equidistant from the last.

-E.P., 12/4/2012

~ by emilypothast on December 4, 2012.

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