I am the bullet, born this eternal instant,
in the firing chamber, yearning for a target.
A battlefield, perhaps, where opposing truths
meet in lethal contest to prove that both are lies
or a theater where a hundred viewers
file in for a fantasy they will live but never see
or an urban street where young men
wager their prowess and forfeit their futures
or a sanctuary where scattered souls
lie limbs akimbo, bleeding into Bibles
or an office party, co-workers pausing from their labor,
a caring to which they will not return?
I do not care. Such matters are too wonderful for me;
I do not contemplate the ironies of hate.
I am born of explosion, the spark of firing pin to primer
ignited propellant, corkscrew rifling, spinning free, subject only
to equations of velocity, deceleration, and range,
fifty-five grains, at thirty-two hundred feet per second.
a memorable impression on flesh or bone.
I am the bullet.
Are you the target?