God’s got empty chambers
in the pistol of the universe,
black holes that kill
without the trigger being pulled.
Forget the showdown on
the star-washed street..
two hotshots facing down each other
a million light years apart.
The gun sits on the dressing table
beside the unmade bed
in a ramshackle room
atop the intergalactic saloon.
It’s cold as death, razes
whatever sunshine pours its way.
It’s aimed at nothing in particular,
everything in general.
Without a shot fired,
it’ll take the combatants,
and the street, and the buildings,
all down with it.
It’ll jam worlds on top of worlds,
compact matter so dense
until endless darkness is the good guy,
untold nothingness, the heavy.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in the Kerf, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.