Little Finches

liberty is not a hymn or an anthem,
a slogan
blocked in the thorax of intersections
of our convictions,
a march
on the squares of the big cities’ apples
with apple worms
wiggling and gobbling inside,
rutting the flesh of their hosts
to metamorphose to their petty sour wings,
a hero that could defeat an army,
an army of braves
leaping over the trenches of fearsome bayonets.

liberty is the tiny throat
of little finches
only
when
they
sing
together.