Classic Poem

POEM NO. IX Each day it seems fiery winds blew but now at last the great hand has come to my waist. As soon as the smell of my sweat can permeate the rapturous valleys of its fingertips Fire! It shall fire. In my bowels I feel the weighty barrel of the gun and its slippery mouth against my tightly shut lips. Then it seems the gun will fire and my eyes close but rather than a round of ammunition I toward my own real mouth pushed what and spat it out?