Think of me as a bow you draw,
as a branch which you shape
and lace with the will of your heart.
Do not think of me as an arrow.
If you must think of me as an arrow
let me be the arrow you loose
into your body of autumn leaves and fire
let me be consumed there – without
having pieced or drawn blood.
Let me send up heavy smoke to heaven,
lost in you, singing your name even as the bowstring quivers.
When I say I am thinking of your body
This is all I mean – that I am always being
carved, drawn, loosed, consumed.