Near Mexico, near April, in the morning.
Desert where the sun casts his circles of power
on acquiescent sand shifting beneath them. Car
speeding among white landscapes; suddenly
the permanent scene at the dead-center.

Photo, in circles of speed, how at raw barnside
father and son stand, man with his rifle up
leveled at heartpoint of a nailed-up bird
spread, wings against the wood. The boy’s arm thrown
up over his eyes, flinching from coming shot.

Bullseye, you bullet! pinning down the scene.
And speed you car over the waste of noon
into the boundaries of distance where
the first ring lessens into memory.
Until, a little lower than the sun,

centered in that last circle, hangs a free
fierce bird down-staring on the target of land, 
circle on circle of power spread, and speeding
eyes passing from zone to zone, from war to where
their bullets will never bring him down.