There is a hand hidden in the pen's writing,
a rider invisible in a horse's dancing about.
We see the arrow's flight, but not the bow,
what is manifest, not the source.
But don't discard the arrow.
Notice the royal markings.
We are the confused polo ball
that does not see the bat's arc coming down.
A tailor tears out seams and sews again.
A blacksmith blows on the fire.
In one moment a saint forgets.
In another, a degenerate begins a forty-day fast.
