The lonely sniper from the land with a language all questions,
to whom it is natural, peering at the curved blade
of the moon, to say (to himself, rubbing his beardless cheek
on the stock of his weapon), “Moon?” To whom it is not
strange in the least, feeling at his cheek the oiled
coolness of walnut in the night (in a whisper thin
as the moon’s kris), to say, “Weapon?” To say (or not
really to say, to find said, a thought as faint
as the old moon, dying on the edge of the new),
“Death?” And to watch as, hesitantly, then surer and surer,
bright bullets in the black answer, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Negative
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