Bleeding in and bleeding out,
a man shot clear through by beast,
the bullet "meant for someone else,"
another apparently more deserving
of this misguided gift, serving only
to reduce clavicles to splintered dust,
ribs and spine to shattered bits,
heart and lungs, powdered with bone,
while surgeons sew, needle to nothing,
failed sutures, netting them no gain,
my feet drowning in this sea of blood,
as I listen to every word, post surgery,
the ending, the outcome pulsing forth,
my fingers guiding it all to the page,
as is, and as if, he might yet still live,
by some turn or catch in phrase or fate,
but I cannot change a word here,
am barred from mixing metaphors,
in sly potion or salve to this wound,
as the language of medicine, verbatim,
leads again to a less than happy ending,
as I continue transcribing words on water.