B r a d R o s e
It’s like this: a dark hole gulps the bullet. My eyes roll back into the black cave of their sockets. My grasp weakens to confetti. The sky’s perfect blue air stares on, unflinching, indifferent. Huddling low and close to myself, I crumple like a piece of clenched paper. My last thought frantically argues with the sound of the shot’s brisk crack. It’s an argument I can hope neither to finish, nor win. I don’t.