Arrow Paradox
Shot through for some time, I seem I’m made
for another place. Not for this minute, not this
flinch in time, but in it I am struck, fletch
firm though no vibrato’s been combed
from a hand behind, hand now long in another
scene, lost, erased. Neither is there a quivering wind,
no audience, so no chagrin. The heart of me—
plumb dumb—is still, is meant for this
freeze frame trick of guilt or grief, whatever locks
me in my pathetic house, attic of theory, shame,
shame, what tucks me in my practices kept
private from the arch, ever-shivering eyes
of the lion beyond the door. The animal in me
waits for the one outside. It knows full well
I am not brave, am not what I meant to seem,
much less be: seamless. Of course, I am not so
worried about the grief, but by my being held
fast to sorrow fast in this flesh, for this flash, the sense
of passing everywhere: in the shorn wind
once shearing, sharply paused, in that gold eye
roaming, those feet mute, hand far, all still
capable of error, pain. This passing, yes,
and its passing, too, eventually, once this idea’s
destroyed like others before, when distance
multiplies distance, and this very instance marks
the body’s atlas, and the original vein I knew is gone
as soon as I dare look up—