54. The Bullet or Breath
are one | the bullet hits
the bullet flies | small little
thing | but which such force
it hits | enters | exits
kills | such a clean little
hole in the body | such
a small little death | yet
we all die | from little
wounds | wounds to the
flesh | wounds to the
heart | a little death must
(will) | befall | us all
it is the wait | that wearies
us | it is the time it takes
to die | or | to know the
death is coming | better
if it surprises | more likely
we will watch | it creep
toward us | yet ablaze
can’t think | of it
except at times | when
the thought | of death
is comfort | is rest
and earth is | burden
stop is | desired
if not | required
the body sometimes | wants
what it | does not need
and the power | of want
is strong | indeed
but | dispense with that
think | instead
of your two | children
still children | the joy
of their breath | the insistence
of their pulse | how they
make you the man | you
could not | otherwise be
a father | of humans
breath in the | deep breath
of someone alive | and intent
on the joy | of life
of wife | of child and
other child | of the heat
of Texas | a man upright
in the midst of | this pandemic
this virus | that has no wants
but acts as if | so
and hold | hold hard
onto these | children
fruit of | your voice
calling to her | who
made these | two on
your blessed | behalf and
hug | as if life were given by hug
these children | here | now
and here | long after us
but ready to make | a world
we could want | to live in
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