The archer won’t shoot, grown weary
Of his hand and fucked opportunity.
Gazing through the window at the curtains
Of birch, envisioning a woman he used to enrapture.
Stuck like a squealing pig in a train car,
Paralyzed by the conductor’s nod, staring into
His ticket which reads, ‘Your potential
Appears to overwhelm you again.’
Separately, the fireman dreams of water overwhelming
Him with its fierce, aquamarine affections. A boy dreams
Of a fireman putting out the sun.
O take this ambition, bury it in sand!
No need any longer for those arrows, driven deep in a rotting log.
The boy who shot those arrows and rejoiced is gone.