Arrow

 

Tacit history, like nothing I remember,

seems to beguile me

into breathing heavily on her

neck

and ear,

and holding her (me trembling) –  she

the longest arrow, stolen

random from my quiver-ing –  sleepingbag of

baby-cloth –  on

 

string drawn too far

from slack to ease

and I me

trembling and no and

to show my

not-knowing

breathing heavy, heavy

I powerless so

 

to release and watch her

sail – a screaming

siren-wild into the fog

bank. It the fog will clear

around her, she to be

found, no note from

me attached or intended

only strings and bows

snug-tight in baby-cloth

 

or more arrows.