Three Independence Day Octets

Independence Day Octet #1

(7/4/17)

late morning when the blinds open, a bird sings

somewhere beyond white parked cars—we haven’t been

introduced—there’s sunlight of course, a ghostly

butterfly to the east, but not the Far East;

we were looking at new colors for Lenten

roses—they were bocce balls on a west coast

lawn somewhere between Rockaway’s broken sand

dollar & Golden Gate Park’s calla lilies

◦           ◦            ◦

Independence Day Octet #2

(7/4/17)

in the Renaissance they knew the soul is black,

the opposite of that souvenir baseball,

the one come to rest against my father’s watch;

afternoon’s firecrackers snap like banjo

strings bursting through a Marshall amp, the one lugged

up Burnside by the guy in black; a sky blue

heart drawn in sidewalk chalk, centered on the crack,

the one where I’m trying to find my mother

◦           ◦            ◦

Independence Day Octet #3

(7/4/17)

a harmonica chord—let’s say C major—

morphs into the sound of a baby crying;

the sun, like the rest of us, is headed west,

the sky with its intentions both good & blue,

is otherwise empty unlike that front porch

piled with dried sunflowers; they make no sound

unlike that hammer against shingles or that

harmonica reverting to single notes

Jack Hayes

© 2017