My arrow flies not straight and narrow
But rollicking, fearsome, and wild
Wide-arced, sinuous – its path, unstoppable
Painted with sunlight, flecked with blood
And All Good Things
And the Muy Mal – rises catastrophic
From depths like ancient oarfish
Falls like gentle newborn snow
Kissing the rosy cheeks of children
Sweeps the fields like harvesting scythes
Cools the sweat of labor beading on your brow
My arrow is Love – do not mistake it
Perilous and holy and free…