Lucas Hunt


Midnight drunken stumbles down to the bay  
to smoke a bowl and bend to pluck a stone  
from pebbly shore then fling it sideways,  
each skip would spark, each spot the rock  
connected with knocked some day into night  
and echoed back—miracles await friction.

Like skin against the black purse of water  
would make a million tiny lights appear,  
the shimmering illusions were just jelly fish  
but put a heavy heart back at ease with life,  
for all its burdens broke apart like fireworks  
that mirror the surface we admire in love.
It was a perfect summer to have explosions  
of bright color painting the soaring sky,  
and they were beautiful things, so singular  
in their outspread elegance, bombs bursting  
above anchored sailboats that sat in open-  
mouthed wonder as the universe burned on.   

After all it was the stars that shown out loud  
and higher than us all, from the vantage  
of an empty lot that lately bore a mansion,  
we saw the most planets in plain abundance  
and heard reckless laughter from the shore,  
people gathered to celebrate Independence Day.

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