I taught my son to hunt
And he is taking to it quickly.
The prey is unidentified,
At least specifically.
His breathing’s imperceptible;
His thoughts, equally so.
His fingertips pull softly on
The tail-end of the arrow.

The temper-tempered medium
Reflects the summer’s light.
With one eye still unopened,
(Is it confidence? Or bright?)
The boy exerts primality
From lung and diaphragm.
And takes a bite of sandwich;
Hazelnut. Raspberry jam.

The sun is rising quickly,
And the weapon has been spent.
The trail was cold before he’d
Even thought which way it went.
But the trophy didn’t matter,
For the act was dignifying.
If I said I wasn’t proud,
I’d be “Correct” but I’d be lying.

Anonymity comes easily to some
when spotlights shine
on subjects
‘Over’ scrutiny.

in instances where time
and opportunity
are narrowly enforced

by powers far
superior, by
circumstances choice.

The weight of wrong and
right had scales
reliant then on fate,
with doses of integrity,
and Honor at the gate.

A man named Leslie
more than half
way dead, with talons forged
by deadliness,
with talons,
with talents forged by lead.

took bullets to the chest
and ordered Death itself
to wait.

Sometimes the principle
must carry more than
truth can bear.

Then duty scoffs at limits. Then
it scoffs at mortal coils.
A bullet has fidelity

A bullet earns its spoils.

Somehow,
with life and draining blood
in pools about his feet,
a sniper on his death boots
snuffed the death knells,
ordered Fate
to stand down for a moment
while he chalked a final kill.

The President himself, his task,
must be protected, must live on
though Leslie had to die.

We all remember Harry, yes.
But Leslie?
Never. Why?

Resting my eyes
made the grid of the mennonite church community garden look
like a brick wall wishing well we sat on
the day your
sister learned how to ride her bike.
You had just fallen
and scraped your palms so you decided to sit
and watch her with me. And you tensed
as her head went just out of sight as she
rode on the path behind the hill.

As she
appeared

in pieces over the tips
of the grass

I heard the airy relief, breath of your whisper “there she is”
You said to yourself. As she turned down the hill toward us
with nothing in between.

It’s hard to see the trees, because
The forest isn’t there.
It’s headed north to Calgary,
Where moose (and trout) and bear.

The grass beneath macadam is
A tourist; how’s unclear.
Or was, but since, has migrated
With beaver (skunk) and deer.

The water’s drier than it was,
(they make it that way now),
On purpose, cause it’s cheaper then;
Lamb, sheep, calf, cow.

The sky is close as ever,
Since the day they pulled it down,
That they might get a taste and touch—
Elephant, snake, sow, clown.

The ground is getting warmer.
There are pockmarks on the hill
And four horses, menless, roaming wild;
Hoof, paw, lung, gill.

But I’ll be fine right here with you,
And you with me as well.
“the lord and lady charcoal”;
Ambrosia, Brimstone, Heaven and Hell.

The spring in my flight of fancy
could use
more than a dollop of whip cream.

Something sweet and slippery
to smooth over
the shriek of metal on mental.

Even when nothing is twisting
my neck
to reject the regret at my heels.

Likewise, I could lean on placebo
or pill
to cure my horizon foreboding.

All the shapes in the future
wear masks
to obscure the hobgoblins.

The present is gift-wrapped for me
with a bow,
but a violin quivers away

with a haunting etude meant to
teach me
to make all the best of the music

Right Here.