Words

Once a word has left, the chamber
there’s nothing, which can be done.

Running along the edge,
of a blade
sharp as a pointed tongue
slipping -
now looking down the barrel,
of a smoking gun.

Awkward is the moment
the sulphur in the air
Black powder, lead against
thin paper [hanging in the] air, bleeding words
left dripping smudges
under eyes..., of despair.

No eraser can retract
words sent flying
heard so clearly, so exact.

If one could only rewind
smoke to lead, lead to barrel
words locked and chambered, in the narrow
..., a passage, tightly tucked away.

Then
nothing else
would need to be said...
this day.