I shot the points off a star dangling in a window and I shot the lies off the tongue of a liar, who then spoke sweetly about the pleasures of the truth. I shot a spider before it could eat a blue fly caught in its web. When I blew the web apart, the blue fly said a prayer for me, then flew off as though on a mission. As a bald man rose in front of me, I shot the last clump of hair off his pate, and he thanked me for freeing him from the tyranny of hair. I shot out the eyes of an old shoe who stumbled to the river and fell in, floating for days in the reeds. I shot the fringe from black feathers falling from the sky. While the clouds bulked above me, I riddled them with bullets until the rain fell and then I shot fat holes in the raindrops until the rain became drizzle. When the fires came, I shot holes in the throats of flames and I shot the smoke too, even as it blinded me. And the echoes swallowed my bullets and the holes grew lonely.