Letters to Guns

Apocrypha

75 Apocrypha Poem to be read in private Once, before guns, a jobless assassin walked through the marketplace with his hands in his unlikely pockets, letting his eyes linger only on red things: meat, blankets, a monkey. He’d had no work for a season, could see none coming— no drought, no election, not even a wedding anniversary—not one symptom within his cure. At the end of the square he turned and sought the oldest merchant. Whispering in the man’s dry ear, he said You were right about him all along. Look for me tomorrow. ...