#here bullet

then here is bone and gristle and flesh.

Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,

the aorta’s opened valves, the leap

thought makes at the synaptic gap.

Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,

that inexorable flight, that insane puncture

into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish

what you’ve started. Because here, Bullet,

here is where I complete the word you bring

hissing through the air, here is where I moan

the barrel’s cold esophagus, triggering

my tongue’s explosives for the rifling I have

inside of me, each twist of the round

spun deeper, because here, Bullet,

here is where the world ends, every time.

Here, Bullet

History is a cloudy mirror made of dirt and bone and ruin. And love? Loss? These are the questions we must answer by war and famine and pestilence, and again by touch and kiss, because each age must learn This is the path of sun's journey by night.

This time it's beautiful. He's in the kelp beds somewhere off the California coast, floating where green leaves touch the sun, as if he's disentangled from thought itself, as if the mind has come this far, up from the depths to release him to the crests and shallows drifting wave by wave back to shore.