[I took aim and let the horseshoe go]
I took aim and let the horseshoe go;
it hooked the stake in the sand and landed.
Two dead and three, then three ringers three.
Non-contact sports have their own erotic appeal.
Things that are Distant Though Near. Things
that Give a Tight Feeling. Things Not Found
Through the Lens of a Telescope
and Visible Only When Blindfolded.
To miss the mark completely
requires its own precision. Lie down,
for instance, shoot a bullet into the sky,
then wait a decade for it to fall to the earth.
Being honest here: those ten years are a bitch.
The bar’s closed. We mix our own drinks and draw
our own targets. I make of your body a bull’s eye.
In a series of rifle experiments, nothing was shot
but the waiting gives a tight feeling. We roll the dice
and move two spaces east. Feet to feet in the grass,
we toss bullets between us. I miss you, you miss me.
We miss each other. A draw makes sense
but ten years later, the shot drops on the lawn.
This late in the game, your neck’s the stake for my shoe;
it lands in the sand. Two dead and three, then three
ringers three. Stalemate, standoff. One dead lock.