I sit in a warm shade
under the sweet smelling holiness
contemplating the world

in revelations, drugged
knowing who why what when
where with, and that also

the white mountains are holy
bloodlessly cold, then warm again
always untouchable, therefore

I embrace the world
tree, the strong, flexible wood
of the largest bows

that shoot further than is possible
with other bows, with arrowheads
and poison pots they are exhibited

in the museum
as the triple power
of rapid death