Colin F. Jones


In ballistics there’s a measurement
That is known to us as ‘jump’,
Where the round leaves the barrel,
To form a little hump,
Creating a line of departure;
To the horizontal plane,
An angle that is calculated,
Accurate gunfire to attain.
‘Tis like the apparent nothingness,
When a baby dies at birth,
The moment of its first-last sigh,
A moment of true worth.
And I am bothered by the misfire,
When the round hits not the Earth.