4.26.24: Ideation

The only offspring of a poem
and an arrow moves with 
helpless, hapless rhythm like 
the broken ballet of bullets
making eccentric escapes
from the loud and proud
double barrels of a shotgun
whose regrets rifle through
its conscience:  a cracked 
cup, held up with hands
that struggle the way a bubble
attempts to acquit itself 
of the science of surface 
tension and the finality of fate.