Wednesday, July 11, 2012


Bullets At Twelve

It was cloudless when I rained a hail of

bullets, hand loaded one at a time, sun

overhead plating the platoon of shells

gold, nose down in neat rows, a treasure trove

of small deadly coins packed tight concealing

short twenty-two cases bearing soft lead

egg shaped slugs, down upon the condemned tin

cans marked for death; one green glass bottle, mouth

open, keening in the wind, a still life

arranged un-artfully beneath a big

blue southern sky filled with wheeling birds that

sorely tempted me:   bolt cocked/finger on

the trigger/primer poised/measured grains of

powder enough to coax the bullet down

the rifled bore, awash with remorse:   the  

pure physics of terminal ballistics.  

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