Today a tree fell from my hand,
on count of six:exhale, the rough
taste of newsprint licked in wisps
with a sable-tongued spine.
Empty, insurgent calm swelled tall
enough to pause the tremors, until
branches leaked, and a trunk stood
on its own.
He reached into his jacket and a little black gun appeared in his paw. He
held it casually, the way you hold a candy bar or a cake of soap. Only this
gun wasn't going to make anyone clean.
-- Jonathan Lethem, "Gun, with Occasional Music"
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