There have been a lot of guns in my poems lately.
We're not islands unto ourselves.
Everything gets in to the pores of what we're writing,
so this poem is called The Secret Miracle.
The night before I was executed by a firing squad,
I had a sex dream.
A baptismal chimera, just like a romp in the hay.
It was stupendous, and when I woke soused in self,
I didn't even mind the cold shoulders of Winchesters
designed for my heart.
The barrel lumens with their brainless
eyes gazing upon me with ardor.
And how like love it was to beam back at them,
divining which suitor held the blank.