The Marksman

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.