A WINDING ARC TOWARD NOON
by Carl Lindquist

Down by the river
I kill the Buddha.
Shoot him dead.

He laughs,
chuckles bubbling and sinking
beneath the current.

These days I expect nothing.
Not even sunrises.

But during some mornings
the red wound of dawn
reminds me
of that gentle bullet

as it winds its way toward noon.

 

copyright Carl Lindquist

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