Veteran marksmen speak of the ballet,
each victim's unique fouetté,
the way the head jerks back, the shoulder
tilts and the sinews fondu,
into and through an invisible chair
like an abandoned marionette.
I get off when blood puffs into mist
from bodies dancing face-down in the dust.
Notice how my pointillistic rat-a-tat
evokes the delicate riverscapes of Seurat.