Our Bullets Look Something Like This

My hope comes from old walls

where plantlife has burrowed through,

bent on tearing the concrete,

bricks apart at a pace invisible.

And so i hand my list of complaints to the wind.

and welcome pitiful trust.

Servant of something else,

too fast or slow to see,

what is right disappearing with the glaciers.

Stand and wait for rain.

Searching for the army of fools

hidden here and there, snipers,

gunshots that leave a victim dancing.

Tactics so unsound, love gets hit

by the laser-pointer in the presentation

as the element we use for bombs.

We have the radar of migrating ducks

and monarch butterfllies, which we ignore

because what’s happiness going to get you

but another sucker punch to the gut.

It is not bravery that sends us south.

Inexplicable 2000 miles, yes,

but we must depart just like this
and create the very space we fly.