We are famous friends, here to get drunk,
stoned, here for the fireworks,
the night of Independence Day.
Ovals spawning xeroxed ovals across a gassy sky,
each boom pursuing its fiery halo. Happy marriage!
someone cries. I do, I don’t,
I might someday. Here’s to the stars and bars!
To my bed, and you having nowhere else to go—
bring a kiss, not your clothes… To the sky!
bright as a bottle shard… To optimism,
and all the states, even the boring ones.
I know you… the skin graft on your cheek,
your lost dog, your can’t-sleep. I might as well
be your own hand. Jesus Christ!—
take off his ring, keep it off,
and put a ring on me.
Copyright © 2012 James Arthur
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.