Thursday, April 29, 2010


The shell casing slow motions skyward, drop-floats back to ryegrass, brass in a tight coat of gunpowder.

Many others, random as dandelions, are found by the sunlight, gathered, handed out to wilt between our fingers, in pockets.

A cousin reminds us to wash with lots of soap after touching them. Lead residue. Still warm in our hands, the poison slow motions, too.


  1. I love this Sheldon. It's so quiet - but still deadly at the end.

    - Felicia

  2. Thanks, Marlena. It's nice to see you here, doing me the honor of reading my little offerings. It is greatly appreciated.

  3. Hit me like a sniper's bullet. Well done.

  4. Cool, Andrew. Hope it's just a flesh wound, though.


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