That is all it takes is one shot.
And all that crimson spills out,
staining each leafy green brocade.
Forensics can tell us the velocity
of a lacerating blow to the flesh by the size,
the shape of blood marks.
Trajectory is measured with strings, pulled like webs,
that span the distance, the angle the blood has traveled
to mark its place upon any wall or blade of grass in any field--even this one.
A bullet through the back of your head
will spray the blood, each droplet spreading out into thin wires,
into tiny telegraphs of how you died.
Maybe, you were running across an open field just then.
It does not matter. Your blood will say it all. It will cry out after you cannot
saying listen, listen, let me tell you what I know.
