turn and shoot

It’s but early autumn

(not Fall since I’ve only seen a solitary leaf ‘fall’ all day).

Fall is a graphic,

Autumn’s a season.

(like sex is a graphic when love is the reason).

Autumn, yet there’s (incongruously) a fifty pound bag of ‘Boot Hill Sand’
cast at my feet (what feeds the desolate shore it issued from?

Its container bag of textured burlap is just a body bag
for the original wash and sort that now rests, procured, in peace).

I could be anywhere alit upon this globe,
roundabout, circumventing the abyss.
So why do I think myself  plot-bound, restrained,
while I’ve a breath-filled body
and raving pulse yet?  The world is
immensely explorable:
just imagine
you and I
at 50 paces
drawing

and shooting

kisses.

Whoever misses

exposes to the other’s mouth

a breast and pays with

the sweet succor

of soft flesh taken.

Either way,

we cheat fate,

beyond the chill of the night,
gunslinging us delicious.