Poetry

After dispossession, 
collecting the dolls─ 
dusting them off. 
 
Who was watching 
you, dousing yourself 
to give a political statement? 
 
Cutting the leaves 
of grass, I open 
the book of Walt Whitman. 
 
This was a targeted 
killing. I will not join 
the funeral procession. 
 
A mistaken lull. 
One day I will─ 
shoot endlessly.