Trajectory

Lawns
always remind me of White
Houses.
the vast and manicured expanses around a
trigger
leave enough space for safely aiming and shooting

Darts
kept in the museumified treasure box of a
child,
pried from, discovered in the grip of delicate
bone.
Unrusty, dusty there be shinning a
pellet,
is discovered by metal detector equipped
children,
in their front yards which a hundred years ago did not look the
same.
Standing on the dirt is a father burying, digging an
arrowhead
is tossed into a improvised
grave
dug for the warm and comfortable entrails nestling a
bullet
is downward tumbling toward the
ground,
is burrowing, puncturing, striking a
pigeon.

Flying across the sky looking ahead, not at what's fired out a long solid
barrel
of a recreational or precautionary
rifle
in the hands of a human with a very different
countenance
than that of the one sitting in the White
House,
who holds a wide flat button for
doomsday