After spiraling twice
it exits the barrel,

the spent day exposing
a flame that propels it.

The bullet, spinning
to maintain a shallow arc,

carves a hot thread
through the wind

until it breaks one hair
and the deer’s neck

splashes open.
Before the heart beats

the bullet unfolds
a plowing lead point

then again is in flight
wobbling from its passage

through the deer.
Its peeled-back body

comes to rest in the soft trunk
of a poplar to stick out

like a button. When I press it
all the leaves fall.


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