every tiny arrow

every arrow word

 

nowhere is there any thing

to be what we come after

 

prepare the boats for high ground

the animal of you

 

the first third of the end

is simple        

 

it comes in a shower

of precise downfalls

by the last tree in the last summer

on the hill where the last sun falls

on the things that at last mean

we are finally unwound

from the hollow arrow

around which we have spun

our ignorant lives

we leave the first last

to wait inside the darkness

where the black snow falls

like the last bird