[This poem’s lines are too long for the column, so I’ve posted it as an image. You will find the text, with broken lines, below the cut.]

This is the day we love our country. This is the day we display
our love of country. We raise our flag on painted front porches.

We march in parades, lift our knees, twirl our batons, shoulder
our rifles. We hold our faithful hands to our loyal hearts. We are

territorial animals. My territory is better than your territory, unless
I can annex your territory to my territory. I love my country, this

land, this vast and changing land. These mountains, these fields,
these monuments scraping the sky. I love what this country stands for.

I stand up for what this country stands for. I hold my hand to my
frightened heart. I count my rights, my freedoms and defenses.

I feel them slipping through my fingers, there is a wound in this loyal
heart. We celebrate this day with fireworks, bombs bursting in air.

Our flag is still there. Our soldiers fight on. For what do our soldiers
fight? This nation, its freedoms and ideals, its aspirations, its falling

short of the mark, its mark. Its mark. Equality, Life, Liberty, the pursuit
of Happiness, the Consent of the Governed. I feel the drums. This heart

is a damaged drum. This heart falters. It stumbles, it staggers. This heart
is a territorial animal. I makes its mark. It claims this territory as its own.