Quiver

What do we do 

                  with memory, do we burn 

or do we embellish it, do we

                  study it like the elk

projected onto the archery 

                 studio screen, summer’s 

gelatin halo shivering 

              between its antlers, replayed

whether or not 

                  anyone will come 

to practice on or witness it: is this                  

                  what memory is:          

static, unchangeable

                  mind we step into 

and the clearing opens: again, 

                 light rain, the scent

of moss, puffs of steam

                  rising off the slick, 

black muzzle? Does the image, 

                  over time, brighten

so feverishly inside us

                  tearing through 

the eye, the mind, the body: is it we

                  who wander out, tentative,

into late morning light?

                  What does it mean 

to forget so much, 

                  happily, greedily, if not 

that we are nourished most

                on loss? The video 

spools, the elk steps into

                  then out of its field,

who cares, it was dead

                  the second the camera 

found it anyway, captured

                  and projected endlessly 

so that we might practice making it

              dead again. 

Is this the image to convince you 

                  of the blinding 

limit to our world?

               Is this another entry 

to our newest opening?                   

                  The animal turns, the screen

   inside its body shakes

             open, bright, and pocked   

by tips of arrows

                  that never find their mark.