Poem: Bullet

 

Bullet

 

violence

finds you tasty,

an olive in the shredded salad

of a heart.

 

you’re good

at making puddles,

turning flesh into a war correspondent’s

landscape.

 

not a judge,

not a license to pierce,

or to dig like a tiny ace of

a gravedigger’s spade,

 

and yet fate 

finds you probative,

pure and effective in tragic drama--

 

a period mark

smearing

the cheeks of mothers.

===============================

3/27/25 mods...