 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Meat
Poems |
|||||||||
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|||||||||
Sight Line |
Another partly cloudy day in Georgia.
Digital chirping in the high tree tops and a sky blue screen over the shooting range. Zerosandones leans into Me- at pants, or is it the other way around? Z can see Georgia, but not her own body - she's almost purely p.o.v. except for those burly forearms and the sound of heavy breathing. Meat Pants moves tentatively with her because whenever they're together they're conjoined. Low hills and patches of beige sand banked by sparse, virtual forest form a horizon from which vaguely menacing orange silhouttes suddenly spring and disappear too quickly to catch in their crosshairs. Another round of ammo wasted on air! moans Zero. Failure to shoot or missing the mark. How far off? It's the seventh partly cloudy sky this hour. |
||
 |
 |
 |
|||