The gun
is official,
is the weapon of
choice among those

who limit choices.
The gun 
fires white teeth, 
set jaws, wide grins. 
The gun

kills you
with explanations,
shoots you full
of bites
and blows.  The gun

is not easy
to aim, often
backfires with song,
joke, retching.  The gun
is at its best

riding on a hip,
sneering, cresting
a war wave in civvies.
The gun

overshares.
The gun
is never yours.
Never yours.

They will give up
the gun to you
only when you pry
etc., etc.,  

in other words 
never and you will have 
to take it if you want
to stop the gun

We shall see what happens next.
We are already a little bit on fire.

We’re burning, but are we burning
more with pain or with joy?

We understand it’s hard to separate
one from the other much of the time.

It would be helpful to know
if we should be glad or terrified.

If the response is “what do you feel
more, fear or ecstasy,” we’re going 

to get angry. If we knew how we felt
about burning like this, we’d be gods —

and we are not gods; we can’t sort reality
well enough to define it.  If we could

we’d never have caught flame
in the first place, even if 

it would have meant ecstasy all the way
from singe to ash.  No one

really wants to burn, ever,
not even a god.  The preference

is for warmth in slight degree only:
burning is for the few

who were born to be fuel. So
we shall see what happens next

in this most unusual circumstance.
We were not meant to end this way,

not even if it is going to be
the most perfect ending possible.