The Bullet

It took milliseconds
for the bullet to

leave the barrel.

It knew like kingfish
plunging seaward, it knew

of destination.

In that target's
plea for attention

where metal meets

soft tissue, thin plates
of bone, receives its guest,

abandoned what it had
owned and fell.


Wayne Pitchko said...

bullets are murder...for sure....i like your poem

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

I was offline a long time. It's good to catch up finally with your poems since 21 January. Love them all!