We dove under a table, my bag

clutched in one hand, your hand in the other.

House rules: no politics. Who had slipped,

stepped aside, maybe only moments? Left

the door unbounced this summer

night? He fired, pointing first

at the other end of the room, shed

one weapon for another. Is that

how we had time to dive? We threw

our bodies down like castoff shoes,

like trash. He walked out. This happened, it

happens, it will happen again, maybe to me,

maybe to you, waking. Down he went

through each room in my house of sleep, from

attic to basement shooting out the lamps

making permanent the dark.