THE ARCHER'S ILLUSION
the range is clear. i approach you,
an archer retrieving the arrows i sent out.
i press my hand against your paper-covered,
styro-foam surface, curling my fingers around
the shaft of each arrow as i pull it out.
i cross back over the line and slip
the arrows into their metal holsters.
*
it is important to do things properly,
at home on the rage. follow the rules of the house,
not for convenience but for protection.
it's a dangerous business, you much watch where you aim:
always point down range and don't cross the line
until you're told, it's clear!
it's procedures such as this that remind me
that everything is possible.
nothing is really certain; nothing is real.
you never know when your grasp may slip,
and your arrow with it, past your grip on the bow.
just as fire can spring forth from a tiny coal, so too
can fire spring unexpected from a poorly-aimed bow.
respect your equipment. you must never dry fire.
an arrow must shoot out every time
you pull back the string and let go.
failure to adhere to the rules will take you
to the back of the line-up or else the back of
existence. won't you wait your turn?
*
i load my bow, the odd feather out, that's who i am.
you are my target: the bull's eye that never blinks.
i pierce through you and it's more than an excercise.
this poem is not about target practice
and the real range will never be completely clear.
