I am an easy
moving target
whose bullseye heart
waits to be pierced
by the beautiful
blinking bullets
you shoot from
your blue eyes
Baby
I am far from
camouflaged
and yet to you
I am collaged
like the torn
magazine image
of an innocuous male
tacked up
or glued to a dozen
scrapbook
magazine wishes
of places and people
that you catch
into your fancy
fantasy
then
release back into
your vast ocean of
forget-me-nots
and you never
even flinched
at the fact
that
I was wearing
red
known the
world over
as the
the color
of desperation
