When missile parts are found
bound for North Korea on a miner’s pass,
carving submerged stretches of the Panama Canal, wrath
silent as a Snowden redux, we
may never discern why. Whimsical armageddon
gauging Oahu? Or plainly, ballistic tests
set for islands depopulated
at the behest of dictators who wish seagulls
would go bang?
But Zimmerman’s spellbound beauty
will forever be a tale of a man
and his gun. That fragile solitude of American oblivion
we discharge the same in rap songs entrepreneurial
as dust caked country Broncos
where only the west
Shoot first into the starched mist,
where humid hoodies cling like
little sisters, because the winner
is always the living who deem those shot dead
merciful from an afterlife, if merely anthropologists
speaking through artifacts, now only acrid animals above a mantle.
So hang ‘em high, the Seminole and Apalachee
tangled in Florida branches
of the state’s great Slash Pine.