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Double-Barreled Browning
by John Guzlowski

My father would always say
shooting is like poetry
like what Yeats does with the falcon
or Frost does with the woods
a function of dreams and tides
an act of the right brain

But alone in my father's woods
in late autumn, I lift his shot gun,
point, and know what doesn't matter:
my mother's kitchen, the summer morning,
the time before and after

and know too that what I see
is what I see: the barrel,
the steel shot, the gush of trees
and geese, geese among the clouds.


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