Joyce and Hemingway
Whiskey and blood
go light as an old French balloon.
Scooping rifles and bottles,
we tramp out to the woods.
The air is smooth as April.
Our guns melt like chocolate;
light as playthings, youll spill me over
pine needles with one little trip.
Accidents have a scent like rain soak,
fresh dug gardens. You like it.
The gun barrel cools my cheek.
I cant see what I try to kill,
rabbits blur-by like living stains.
How much of life has gone soft
at the edges of things?
Blast powders the tongue,
taste of rock salt, liquor
and blood. Returning with a fist
of shotgunned rabbit, you let me
touch my nose to it.