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He snipes from a corner
visage with a view, from a 
tower not of ivory but of
melancholy hue;

the quadrants of his
crosshairs split the world
in two and two again; I’ve
been the target of his sights
and, lightly grazed, I know
he seeks to right what
can’t be wronged,

and every time he loads
to fire anew, intelligence
sends out a tremor that
alerts brigades and
cavalcades, a blush
of spies report the
movements and
intentionalities that
wholeness does not
see, and while the
sniper feels assured,
his crosshairs tremble.

We are each of us an
infantry, tin soldiers, washer
women, boys and girls, we play
at hide and seek, and as we flush
the grouse and peasantry from all
we fear to lose, our woods deplete
until at last, as integers, we stand
alone reflected in the center of
a crosshairs not our own.
© Elaine Stirling, 2012