The Arrow

6.10

And why not I got the dark in my hair

I am like eight swollen knuckles
a ring you can’t wear

and soft as water is thought of
River solitaire aren’t I

a dizziness 
you can’t catch 

in the thicket of the night
I have burned cassocks 

I reclaim my throat
from the vertiginous silence

of the peregrinos
Under the chambers there 

is a melody that is sung 
for centuries the skeletons 

of so many archers 
with long arms like swords 

sheathed 
in the stretched forgotten country

In the dark of my hair you can’t read
the hieroglyphic tree 

but you can smell the leaves
on the wind something stolen

God her hair the hidden soap
a scent so crisp

you turn your head