Arts of an Arrow


Familiar friends through a veiled door,
I'm set to waking
through slumber.

No sense of exact measures,
the teapot is humming with vague whistle.

Time is cleaving the air.


Trace -- silhouette of former image
luring the eye in a torus-dance, by
degree, resolution snaps in.

Webbed currents of pathways past,
leaping forth with harvest and feast;

budding deep in singular action.

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