Two thousand feet a second
is the speed of death.
Sharp points turning, turning.

Bullets spin outstripping sound,
cleaving air which flames bright
in the closing day.

This one’s personal, though,
this one’s mine.

Two thousand feet a second
and death breathes
a blessing softly in my mouth,

unstitching a dream of life

to wake from sleeping
in one quick burst.

Two thousand feet a second and
death breathes softly,
a pale cloud
whitening
beneath this rising moon,

pale as the colour of souls
separated from flesh

climbing,
climbing
beyond dreams of living and dying.

Now, as this bullet spins
I taste her secrets
sharp upon my tongue,

full in my throat,
a secret only for life’s last moment.

Taste
but cannot speak –

words falling helpless into eternity
where stars are borne
at the brittle edge of time.

Bullets spinning, spinning
as death whispers in my ear

lament of love, lament of loss,
lament of life leaving

Flesh tears,
here between two worlds,

parting at a bullet’s point
as time collides and
winds from its beginning
to its end.

No more time now, it’s folded up and done,
here by a roadside dry where anvil heat
still sears the evening dust.

Is this how it goes
as the bullet spins,
spinning, spinning an embrace
of brass tipped death?

Here where we are stained
purple by the dying sun,
Here where blood dark
soaks a roadside edge
to bind the loosened earth.

Is this how it goes;
seductive call of words
which slide in the throat
and cling like a lover’s kiss

‘Come – do not be afraid,
now the hour of return
comes fresh to greet you,
full of green promise’

‘Do not be afraid,
here your end is brought
in this quick touch
of the bullet’s fall.’

Whose voice calls?
The allure of life leaving –
lament of living,
lament of dying –

a bloom which grows
and paints the fading sky
with darkness warm and close –

love embracing,
love remembering

inviting to eternity
in one clear second
where all the days fall
and are buried.

Spinning, spinning,
two thousand feet a second
outstripping sound

and death has sealed my ear
to all but her bright secrets
calling, calling to return –

siren song which must be heard
above the beat of waves
on seas strange and dangerous.

‘Do not be afraid
your birth has circled round
to greet you in your end –

breathes beneath your skin
in this benison as a bullet spins.’

Spinning, spinning –
unwinding time,
in the anvil’s heat,
here where gardens hung
between two rivers

Here, where life hangs
between two worlds.

Mesopotamian dreams and
all the seconds counted now,
the last tumbled to its place
as one sharp point

separates to-day from tomorrow
and brings you out anew.

All the seconds drawn,
the curtain lifted high,
one world sealed,

another opened

and here’s eternity
in one clear thrust.