Dispensation
At last the stones of your eyes
roll away, and whoever it was
nailed upon the hill of your skull,
whoever left the map to heaven
scratched in your right palm
and all its cryptic passwords
spelled in the curling letters
of your hair, whoever has been
answering to your name comes forth
in all directions at once, singing
the small songs, the almost still songs:
the cicada ripening out of its husk;
the spore climbing slowly through thunder;
the grass joining hands to dance.
The work of the bow
I love how the bridge is strung
to sing like a harp
suspended in strong gales;

I love the nerves
pegged over your ribs
like a zither tuned to my fingers;

and most of all I love to stand
still as the center
of a straw target,

and await
the single note of the long bow
arrowing through all things.