Consider the mind of indirection,
how an arrow might travel through it
as through an amber-colored medium:
thickly spangled with motes and relics
from its previous lives— dangle
of severed insect legs, clumps of dust
or grains of pollen, parts of the hive
collapsed from collective industry
of what’s meant to sate the hunger—
And it might be difficult to navigate
one clear course from a given point
to its supposed destination,
for the minuscule pockets of air
traveling up and down are slower
than grill elevators, their pulleys oiled
with molasses— Still, the days grow long
to darken pools of collected gold: thick plot,
dense hold of what we hope will weather sweeter.
~ *after Mary Ruefle