I snap the twig to try to trap the springing and I relearn the same lesson. You cannot make a keepsake of this season. Your heart's not the source of that sort of sap, lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft, though for a moment it's your guilty fist that's flowering. You're no good host to this extremity that points now, broken, back at the dirt as if to ask are we there yet. You flatter this small turn tip of a larger book of matches that can't refuse its end, re-fuse itself, un-flare. Sure. Now forget again. Here's a new green vein, another clutch to take, give, a handful of seconds.
Might night right sight?
The first thing she did after we blindfolded her
and turned her in circles by her shoulders
for where she thought her target hung
and hit tree trunk instead, with one strike
against it split the stick
in half to jagged dagger
fists. The donkey gently swayed
within reach, barely grazed
and staring straight ahead with the conviction
inherent to its kind at the horizon
that a gaze
paper mane fluttering in the breeze of a near miss,
belly ballasted with melting chocolate kisses,
drawn grin belying its
of ritual and craft. She's grinning
too, and laughing, regaining
planting her feet in a samurai stance.
She brandishes her splinter.
There's no harm in letting her
take another turn
her around again.
We think we know how this ends,
how good it feels to play at this,
violence and darkness,
that harbors something sweet.