Well there ain’t no other other,
nothing else I’m given to write.
From my poor swampy heart
to yours, dear reader.
Wooden arrows I shoot
with a wooden bow
into straw bales
in the quiet evening.
Not often enough,
not young enough,
to get really good.
Won’t use gizmos, sights,
hi-tech stuff.
Just me, longbow, arrow.
They wobble as they fly,
almost never
hit the bullseye.
Some soar right over the bales,
and I climb the barbed wire fence,
kick through the weeds,
but never find them.
Still, always something
rattling round the quiver,
thank god.
Notch the arrow,
draw back the string.
Better not fuck this up.
Aim,
breathe out,
let it fly.
No other other,