or the gun. I go for the gun and pull it from a pocket in a single silvery flash. The barrel is resting snuggly against the cashier’s forehead. His face slips
into transparency and his eyeballs seem to shiver. I extend my free hand, fingers open, palm up. He opens the register and places a stack of green bills on my hand like a pedestal. I pocket the money. I cock the hammer of the 38’. He stops breathing. I slide the barrel from his forehead and squeeze the trigger two inches from his temple. The bullet shatters a glass cabinet behind him filled with cigarettes. I pocket the 38’ and pull out the poems. I read him 2; short, fast, violent. I pocket the poems and walk out. As I go, I know the poems didn’t leave an impression, nearly as deep as the blistering white ringing in his ears—
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