I should be getting
through to you.
I’ll try metaphor.

I surmise that even though I’m an arrow,
you’re the wind, who, we know,
mostly arrives from the west.

Except at night, when it drops
like a spent arrow,
wounded, itself.

So, it waits for the East,
Or becomes a fish on
the Magnetawan River.

Where east is not east,
nor west, west,
But a new body of direction,
the legs and the spleen and the eyes of a metaphor,

living arrow
that you can take in your hands
and drink, or
pour over your body
as if your life was a coin
worth everything it always was
for free.