Compare it to the line,
that matter of fact sign
of direction
started but never done.
Whichever way it moves,
how far or long, it proves
distance can go
only so high or low.
I think we should rejoice
there is no other choice
than straight or round—
makes life easy, I've found.
ACHILLES HAD HIS HEEL
And still the arrows fly
in all directions.
No one is safe. The wind
has no armor.
Strength, beauty, valor,
whatever we find
and name perfection
is target to the eye.
Who is immune?
Either we aim—and miss,
or ourselves become
the victims hit.
Even a hermit,
locked inside his room,
remembers St. Francis
sang often out of tune.
We learn to die
from a thousand wounds,
each scarred inside
till the final failure.