by Taylor Byas
Down by the fountain,
a man lowers himself down
to one knee. The ring,
a counterfeit sun. I see
the woman process
his silent question, her face
overshot with rage.
Through my eyes’ wide sniper scope,
I watch the bullet
of my understanding catch
her shoulder. She stumbles back.
From:
Resting Bitch Face
Copyright ©:
2025, Soft Skull Press




