On tv we saw a woman living
with her kids in a tin slum.
She showed the camera man
an open stove, a hairbrush
on a box that was her bedside table.
Along one wall, dirty water trickled
around bullet holes, ticking,
limned by the reporter’s voice-over.
How we like to focus on what’s close up.
We don’t even know where the bullets go—
through cities and forests, clean
into the open air.