POEM XXXVIII: “HIT THAT”

Wind your fingers with athletic tape
Put on an ancient blue sweatshirt
and head out to the shooting range.

This early,
no one shoots,
so you’ll have the place to yourself
to draw and aim,
release the string,
adjust and adjust and adjust.

Pour your head into your body
and your body into your arrow
and your arrow into the hole
at the end of the range.

It’s not rocket science.
It’s not any sort of science.

It’s pouring piss from a boot, kid,
and the target’s not a target but a drain:

Empty out.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s