CROSSBOW

I first wind up my wit, screwing my pate
To the sticking place, then softly ruminate
On memories and passing wisps of thought,
Until into my view comes what I’ve sought:

The prey I pray for’s an endearing rhyme
That couples with another in fit time,
Both coming to alignment in my sight—
Then I transfix them with a shaft of light.

What formerly was lurking in the shade,
Unseen, is now quite publicly displayed;
What was inchoate, inarticulate,
Has here found form and voice and proven fit.

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