maybe it was not the jacketed metal
that killed soldiers, not the compressed air
in a vacant pocket of explosion.
maybe those projectiles only
spring through the gauntlet of wandering attention–
the blistered foot, the scratched raw palm chafing
on the salty stock of a worn rifle.
maybe in the window of rainwater
fresh on green-drunk jungle, in the heart-stopping
din orchestra of birdsong falling
on morning’s delicate daylight, swinging
grass flowing like wind-water
gold as a lit evening in illinois . . .
perhaps it is not precisely the trigger pulled that kills
but the moment between, that of an eyelid flickering,
side trip to a stop frame of living
that takes each soldier’s life,
stolen with calcified indifference
from that blade width of inattention
between the effort of vigilance
and the infinite sensation
of a hunger for beauty.
orphan poems 