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Bad Shot
The shot was not clean.
Angled like the sun,
the bullet traveled flat
—-a dime—
reaching out, hammered,
like only Winchester can.
Slanting, through heart,
lungs, the inner greasy coil
left cut like a ribbon
at the finish line.
The buck ran before
life, that beautiful,
intangible thing, left
to blood
and brush.
I have killed, but
don’t feel—Nothing.
Gun cradled I walked slow,
to see dead eyes,
soft brown marbles,
the gaze from beyond,
staring up.
“Beautiful, ain’t he?”
Said Uncle.
Galaxy Days
The streets are empty,
Bangkok Saturday-quiet,
only farang walk about.
All Thais are inside watching,
Khaosai win by liver punch.