Mornings I Roll a Wheel…

Of arrows I prefer the invisible

I’ve a dozen in my torso

Ten or more in my face—

Blind children carry them far

Into adulthood, urchin spines

Broken, no markings

 

Mornings I roll a wheel

Also unseeable

East to West

North to South

In the privacy

Of my room

 

It throws off sparks

All the arrows lit then

Like candles

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