WEBVTT

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There have been a lot of
guns in my poems lately.

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We're not islands
unto ourselves.

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Everything gets in to the
pores of what we're writing,

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so this poem is called
The Secret Miracle.

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The night before I was
executed by a firing squad,

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I had a sex dream.

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A baptismal chimera, just
like a romp in the hay.

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It was stupendous, and
when I woke soused in self,

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I didn't even mind the cold
shoulders of Winchesters

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designed for my heart.

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The barrel lumens
with their brainless

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eyes gazing upon me with ardor.

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And how like love it was
to beam back at them,

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divining which suitor
held the blank.

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