The firebird slips through

your blistered hands but still you

run in wild pursuit 

The detonation 

of our inalienable rights 

is the real fireworks 

You spirit wrestlers 

who grapple with God will tap out, 

bruised but no wiser  

Dead gods once wept for 

lost worshipers dwindled down 

to a few sad souls 

Fatuous flunkies,

debt-ridden and deprived, wave

their frayed little flags 

In a world gone to 

hell your baptism of fire 

is but a burnt match 

A black squirrel shakes 

the tree limb til berries fall 

for its waiting kin