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by Michael Brett

The Sniper is more patient than his mountain.

He has been here for weeks, imagining faces

In the clouds and rocks.

Oily as a wrestler, as cherished as silver,

His rifle parts snap into place

As he hears the soldiers.



The barrel is a teacher's pointer.

Over the road that irresistible history pushed

Through conferences, plans and speeches.



Now time, road and men converge at an instant.

He leans forward like a teacher of geometry.

His sights chalk the place where all lines intersect: x.



His gunshots are the sounds of envelopes being opened,

Door knockers, doorbells and telephones ringing.


~
Copyright © 2009 - Michael Brett
Published: 8/6/09   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem