Inklings and visions
and small fragmented
somethings
indefinable but so concrete
stir and yearn to free themselves
and remind me in predawn darkness
to look up
up at distant Orion
as if they missed a home
The hour is still
the darkness so complete
only the very wise
and the oh so foolish are awake
I step
a few steps over old bricks
over cold bricks
to reach the shed
my desk, my pen, my labor
He rattles his cage again
this prisoner
and again
bars that never shatter with age
praying
for but one weakness
for but one miracle
as Orion outside beckons
He dreams of holiness
this one
wants to leave the world
he does
and rise up in the air
slide gently into nothing
away from traps and mires
and problems
and problems
problems
whose only purpose
is to keep us from
looking, looking, looking
whose only goal
is to keep us from
finding
A smile, a breast, a lock of hair,
a promise all aim to kill
and snare and lure
and seize this arrow aimed at far away Orion
and bend it instead down
toward dull achy pleasure
toward pain that life will kill for
And he lets her in
he opens the door
if only the tiniest crack
and the ether soundlessly fills his room
reeling him with this promise
and his arrow falters
and he drops his bow and gives in
The loneliest crusader
will he die for truth
will he ever cease trying
I find my bow and pick it up
grey with dust and side roads
and find neglected arrow
and find again Orion
and match again notch and string
With a sigh I pull it back
take new aim
