We watch the lights flicker in the warm, Nice night, dancing over snowflakes
dusting the windshield.
If you let go, unfocused and spiraling into the dark it might feel like a celebration, Bastille day
Christmas in July.
I hear they’re celebrating in Baltimore and Baghdad, listen closely and I swear I can catch the echoes
the rapport off the ramparts.
Mothers, forgive us for we know not what we do, we’re just children with terrible toys, presents
pointed the wrong way.