Grieving The Mark

Loaded memories trigger bullets
And before I know it,
The sheet is torn up with my regret
And at least one deer is dead.

I always hated hunting,
The whole death at your fingertips,
These fingertips smooth as a worry stone,
Worn and clumsy
Could never hit the mark intended
For a quick death,
But draw out the hurting,
One ragged breath at a time.

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