Astronomers and archers all agree
on the urgency for agreement, even if not
where the curve begins to curve, how many tics
make up a par, what correct punctuation
to insert in all the wrong places.
Shooting for stars or apples, the aim
can’t be perfect, can’t be flawed –
but the can’ts are of two different cants.
Driving at two a.m. on the straightest
of pavements, made treacherous by torrents,
I keep awake by bouncing from station to station,
the radio hiccuping a John Cage experiment
which awakens me to the cage he built himself,
awakens me to how the minutest of tics
could send me skidding into oblivion –
longing instead to ramble the rough and dry
such as concrete spilled once quite in error.
Weary of being smothered by certainty,
I dream of tenting in wabi-sabi land
to test whether Art is smeared reality, craving
to crop the frame that will complete my range
though I can fill only one set of prints at once.
Still, my tic is the apex, and can shift
before my bell curve becomes my bell jar.