Bullets

A bullet doesn’t have a name on it
but a shutter snap has a thousand voices,
they break off at the edge of a

Frame, curling around the silhouettes
of onlookers. The words aren’t written in
white chalk, but written nonetheless.

A bullet does not have a name on it.
But a shutter snap has a story.
Trails of smoke encase the 3faces

They run through the trails and compress in
Lungs, like constant shock,
And the shutter snaps

Again, and again

Asking us for a little more aggression
Begging for just the right angle of misshapen hope
Melted and snapped from the

Bones and the bounty, sinking teeth
Into meat and ripping away any kind, any kindness.

And the smoke rises again like heat
tends to do—reloading,