Bull’s-Eye

Along the Pojoaque, cottonwoods form a swerving river of gold—

a plumber’s daughter returned your call to say her father died—

that moment slipped like water between your fingers—

like light yellowing during an annular eclipse before it whitens into daylight—

you tremble at the surge of yellow-gold light at your fingertips—

the stretch of desire in your body like stringing a bow—

you love how she gathers herself then gazes point-blank into your eyes—

a Himalayan crane’s-bill opens violet flower after flower before the oncoming frost—

at Troy, you ignored the ruins and marvelled at how silt from two rivers had distanced the sea—

they brag at building the largest sandcastle on a beach—

you grieve at the thought of deep-sea mining—

we pick a few blood-red strawberries among the desiccating leaves—

as sunlight heats a wall, you see how red petunias in a pot survive a freeze—

water rises in a stone fountain and spills over the rim—

you drink the candlelight before shimmering into flame—

you take off, like a shaggy coat, what the world thinks and warm yourself at an outdoor fire—

nocking an arrow, you thrill at the anticipation that spreads to your fingertips—

you fly straight into the bull’s-eye of the day—