Thursday, May 14, 2009

the sprite

in the distance, a choir of angels sings, as
you watch the hunter's rifle come off his shoulder,
up -
(he's practiced at this)
his dog poised

feet set
barrel up to
eye level glasses
pushed out of the way
he takes aim and breathes and
caresses the trigger like the way you
touched me underneath my arm the last night we were

the angels have stopped singing

you watch the dog drag back a bloody pile of flesh
and robes
and wings

and you look at the hunter, who shoulders his rifle and
looks you in the eye and says,
with a shrug,

"gotta eat"


Anonymous said...

I like the way you broke up the sentences it gave the poem a really good rhythm

Anonymous said...

gross poem is gross. but the structur is teh clevar. you still taking reader submissions?