You hold in your eye-hands a sketchbook of rough draftsmanship, coarse-hewn prototypes not to be confused with the finished mccoy…
These words are the bullets.
(Count ‘em, they number forty-nine.)
This poem is the gun.
But in whose mouth, yours or mine?
And if to read it is to shoot it,
then which of us pulled the trigger,
and whose brains were just blown out
in redly shining vigour?