RicochetIn your magazineare silver bulletsAim your rifle, I'm the bulls eyeyou will sorely miss Since, the ricochet,who knows that? Or this? . . .The shot is long, reversed,this portrait more abstract; moredepth in the colorof each dayYou, in the background,always trying to findanother vanishing pointIn Magritte's eyeor, is it mine?The horizon is weak . . .in this particularcollage, I press glue-stiff, white sheets - streaks, across the skyI bandage the moonand blindfoldthe sigh, feel likepainting-by-numbers the numbers in your smile(down for the count?)Instead, I've sketched(with inner eye) - outthat so obvious twistof your not so stiff,(anymore, if ever) lipDeborah Russell, © 2005
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