by Michael Brett

The Sniper is more patient than his mountain.

He has been here for weeks, imagining faces

In the clouds and rocks.

Oily as a wrestler, as cherished as silver,

His rifle parts snap into place

As he hears the soldiers.

The barrel is a teacher's pointer.

Over the road that irresistible history pushed

Through conferences, plans and speeches.

Now time, road and men converge at an instant.

He leans forward like a teacher of geometry.

His sights chalk the place where all lines intersect: x.

His gunshots are the sounds of envelopes being opened,

Door knockers, doorbells and telephones ringing.

Copyright © 2009 - Michael Brett
Published: 8/6/09   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem