The socket of each axhead like the squared
Doorway to a megalithic tomb
With its slabbed passage that keeps opening forward
To face another corbeled stone-faced door
That opens on a third. There is no last door,
Just a threshold stone, stone jambs, stone crossbeam
Repeating enter, enter, enter, enter.
Lintel and upright fly past in the dark.

After the bowstring sang a swallow’s note,
The arrow whose migration is its mark
Leaves a whispered breath in every socket.
The great test is over, while the gut’s still humming,
This time it travels out of all knowing
Perfectly aimed towards the vacant center.

This Issue

December 17, 1987