from Thing Happen Hole
(San Francisco,1992)


Cover art by John Borruso


Autopilot

Being the perfect wingless fly
most alone and high above
everything it knows as matter;
expending against
the empty blue expanse;
never having known the reversal
of slowdown, peak and falling;
the bullet's confident screech
is toxic and oiled, spinning,
spat upward and disappearing.

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