Margaret Allegruci

bullet or battery

mist in morning air
is droplets on grass
Sunday windless clay smells
the sun hides in gray shades

beneath me
a red berry
sits on a weed patch

just between
cracks in the
alley road
where a rusted

brass bullet
had rolled
and keeps its secrets
of which flesh

it had passed through
which glass shattered
weightless powder lost in the asphalt
where once it was earthbound.