The red glow slithering
into Gotham draws your aim
like a hiss in the brush.

From your perch
you pick them
off, the tiny hearts

a pulsing ruby rush.
Dumb, doe-eyed, knockneed
in your itchy trigger sight.

Surrender to sleep? A bomb
like a midnight plum
will gut you to seed.

Terrorized, you defend
your sky, your clutch,
the border you trip wire

in settling dust.
But you don't trust -
better to wear down to rust.

Polished, prepared
and mapped; a combat line
scrawled in brotherly sap.

Drawn through a needle.
Stockpiles of Mercurachrome,
morphine, madness.

Each night a field of banshees,
dancing empty bandages, prayers
cursed through missing teeth.

Every year a wreath from you.
Every anniversary a panic.

Mar 22, 2009 John Goss