This life that is born unto me:
spirit moving across a body of black water,
where the sick and wounded are healed—
a circle, a square, a cross,
the names of the months of the Great Year,
Adamic and pre-Adamic times—
a new heaven and a new earth are created—
at the center of which is the arrow broken in the hour of birth—

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I did not break the arrow that is my life,
that shot through the air on its projectory,
shot through space, the bow pulled taut
and the arrow released like a wild animal,
like a bullet or a missile to its unknown destination,
entering the air, penetrating the darkness,
penetrating the flesh of the bear, ripping into the stag’s flesh,
ripping apart the paper on which is written indecipherable notes,
bouncing off the rocky cliff,  falling to the ground
to a field of weeds, missing the bull’s eye—