Not Grace Exactly

In a hundred rows of corn

	A quarter mile long—three of us,

Whatever doves were hiding,

	Two shotguns and a .22.

The only time I ever killed

	Was by accident. The only thing

I ever shot at, once, was a blackbird.

	And the bullet of my .22 hissed

By the ear of my brother’s quiet friend

	Who later rested his open palm behind

My neck and continued saying nothing,

But smiled, cased his double-barrel

	And laid it down in the bed of his truck

Which was shining from a noon rain.