Shotgun

To break what the trap lets fly, you wingthem and they burst into the bird bonesof some little sunset underfoot.

Lame, orange, almost morning colored,like fireworks lay down before thesmell of guns. You said Anticipate

the target, and Breathe, so Iimagined the moon throwing its bowlacross the skeet range, how I might could

shoot out the flood light. I was silly,a boy, and it is fun shooting atclay pigeons—the fuckers, not a bit

like real birds. I have revised my gripon the stock to hold the hand-shaped parts.I have memorized the parts

of a gun, I have liked the gun. I rememberthe trigger, which is important—thisis an important part of the gun, I think.