In Praise of a Splinter

There:

In a dry river bed
Carving the canyon
Of one finger print:

A shaft.

The finger must be held up
Against a dark background . . .
Behold:
A translucent projectile
From some angry angel.

And yet:
Each time you brush against it,
An alarm goes through
Your entire
Being.

It is the thrill
Of the threading of nerves,
Ideas,
Experience --
And in it, too:
Fear,
A premontion
Of
The End
That comes with each
Sensation.

How, you might ask,
Can something so small
Pervade your consciousness,
Arrest your day,
Force its way
To the front?

The splinter says:
Pay attention.

It says:
You are one
And many.

How finely woven you are,
And how attuned
To the missives
And missiles

That remind you
To pay attention.

The splinter is gone,
But not the spirit that sent it.

The splinter found its mark,
Made its wound:
A world poured in behind it.

Thank it.

--Mr. Gobley