- Jacquelyn Pope

The X crossed is quivered—
barbed or feathered, bound
and centered.

                   But consider:
once the arrow's drawn it draws
another mark, takes sides,
makes aim, unwavering.

Pulled taut it pushes back
then points and starts aloft,
begins a parting cleaving
seaming of the air

undoing chance by choice
its plunge and strike an arc
that bites and bears no exit mark.

The lot it draws it might defer
at ends, from one to other, point lost
or lodged, a verge transcribed

in blunted, buried signs.