Of, When,

I'll breathe gently and shallowly.
Another meeting.
The gun has a kind of character, and weight.
It feels things.
The same, and differently than I do.
It makes my hands feel greasy sweat.
And the almost clean smell of oil.
It loves, and overwhelmingly senses a hate.
We'll again speak in our quieted low tones,
I cannot make the world better.
It smiles as it repeats this.

— Peter Layton