Two flags nuzzle each other in the desultory gust
because they are
fleeing the trees, who are cruel to one another,
shading their neighbors to death

a mixed bag
advocating small business in a loose confederation.

The flags don't give any shade at all.

On the anniversary of our country
we throw dynamite at the air
we build into.

*

Daylight savings. A beeline
to a sea lion, as the children's song extols, or is it
a beeline to a scallion?

You hear your own accent—
or
a child makes an error to see if you're listening.

A heartfelt counterfeit.

*

A cough muffled
in its own sputum's
repeated
in the next throat:

a family of coughs comes
to couch in us
while the sun rises
over the church,
treetops' psych ops
combusting all over
the ground
tasked
with a snowdrop.