Fourth of July

Freedom is a rocket, isn’t it, bursting orgasmically over parkloads of hot dog devouring human beings or into the cities of our enemies without whom we would surely kill ourselves though they are ourselves and America I see now is the soldier who said I saw something burning on my chest and tried to brush it off with my right hand but my arm wasn’t there— America is no other than this moment, the burning ribcage, the hand gone that might have put it out, the skies afire with our history.