Target Practice

the neighbors
are that sort of people who would stand on the
back porch with grandfather's
ancient derringer and shoot a hole dead thru' 8:18: a number left undisturbed but for the blackbirds
who may have believed that the sun choosing to be over top would be proof enough in the security
of Things: myself on the back porch (the air closed a bit over the gunshot)
saying small Things

"cleaning out a wound" "it is a late morning" or other words that were forgotten and formed a

much better poem: some
thing about mountains perhaps. and they are staring across the place between (divides are old times are
we not right?) and I am
not afraid of
grandfather or his old gun that could not keep the invaders in the gates of the fold or the west from
consuming the sun. ah. it is morning in
twelve hours rounded out
the neighbors had a dog once a mongrel the size of the Pyrenees mountains or a space inside a tree blossom brought over from Japan and the dog ran
outdoors one summer

a police
man is arguing with a
fire
fighter
over the best way

to

fall forward in the vacuum of space

my neighbors
are standing on their porch
cleaning silver
necklaces that they melted
down into a
handgun in order
to put a real hole
in 8:19 seeing as how 8:18 limped off still about and able
to

return tomorrow