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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