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no 47

 

 

 

 

dismissed with a flicker of the eyelids,

a transfer away,

attention no longer required.

he wears assassin’s gloves,

a sliver of pale wrist between

black leather and sleeve.

 

grants you one of his

slow-motion blinks,

the ones that speak volumes,

meaning that slices to the bone.

discipline is what rules him

but the rules are not of his making.

 

lets his trigger finger do the talking

world-weary disdain on his innocent

child’s face, blank, without guilt,

beyond remorse,

prettily flecked with the

blood of the dead.

 See here and here for more on Tim Olyphant.

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