Oculus
On the curbside I caught myself
staring at the asphalt as it glittered into a galaxy of broken glass.
I found the ancient, empty space in-between the stars
had light-years since
been kept from my oval windows.
Alas, I caught–the coroner of my eye
An L.A. Noire woman
With ruddy lipstick,
netted stockings,
stilettos,
a cute revolver—
and a selling smile.
The ad on the wall–Above the empty
Square black velvet case;
Mouth open; a white-silk grin
Reflecting dimly off the glass.
Before I knew her,
the hammer struck the primer
in slow motion.
A supernova of shards scintillated beyond
the cracked bullet-hole pupil on my oculus.
The bullet chiefly ascended
With no friction
To the empty space in-between the stars
Igniting ancient light-forms,
Cosmic residues of times long gone.
Yet no verity was lost.
No matter left unanswered.
My lens, undaunted,
Blinked back into the obscurity,
Amongst the dross, staring
At the smoking cartridge.
