when it's not, We're riddled with bullets, shot through like ducks

Tina says we do it to one another, every day, 

Knowing and not knowing. When it is love, 

What happens feels like dumb luck. When it's not, 

We're riddled with bullets, shot through like ducks. 

 

Every day. To ourselves and one another. And what 

If what it is, and what sends it, has nothing to do 

With what we can't see? Nothing whatsoever 

To do with a power other than muscle, will, sheer fright? 

 

[Tracy K. Smith {1972- } "9" from 'Life on Mars', in Such Color]