Someone who does not know you
somewhere is cleaning his rifle,
carefully weighing the bullets
that will put you out of his life.

Someone, perhaps the figure
you see in the rearview mirror,
is living ahead to your death,
dreaming the sick world green.

Someone is already climbing
a tower in Texas, is halfway up,
is at the top, has sought you out
and lifts his gun as though this death
had anything to do with you.