how you—tiny, unseen—with your limbs curled up
like dead autumn leaves as they dry upon the sidewalk
keep the boys at bay with your black bones and your tup-
tup-tupping fortunes makes wonder when you talk
about ripping up the lives and conventions into bits
and living off unfinished dreams with a black rifle in tow
as still as still your body waits and sits
for the perfect shot through your scope in winter snow.

i beckon how the range your shots can take is so grand
when i see that smile—the toothy bullets popping off a round
and then you hide; it's baffling when you clench your hand
your finger squeezing for that lovely sound.

in your perch, you wait and strain and stay
and hit me off from five hundred yards away.

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