fifty bullets each shell presses a crease on the air a ripple in the clean of breathable atmosphere each bullet blows a whistle heard by god's dogs carrying home children by the neck fusillade bounces off church bells the funeral inertia the poor have artillery for lawyers the poor have been chasing each other around laundry lines whispering "bang" the poor haves qualms over bread and women with bearable thighs and mostly with the cousin of his cousin-of neighborhood middle-aged quiet man shot somewhere in that pruned family tree the south block is pushing holes in storm clouds the southern guns are gyrating rain dances the north boys are parting their thoughts the chimneys are "ting-tinging" down gifts and christmas rings sparks off the brick popping the eyes of children there is lead in the water dripping off the lips of panting fountain-falling schoolkids everyone in the ghetto can whistle everyone in the ghetto is sidestep quicksilver there are infant automatics with lightning spray hatching from eggs all the king's men are falling the nightly lucky number body count swing low, sweet chambermaid coming forth to carry me home the gun in the garden sewn to the tree the hand of the man tailored to fit it the nerve of the creator of steel the nerve of the hand that pulls it