Love Poem For A Wound

It appears
I have been shot again: 
silently as always, 
from afar as always,
with an ancient weapon
as always.

When an arrow enters
it breaks a path for blood
and for pain
but also for perfume
I forget I have within me
whenever I am between
such wounds.

I settle with a shiver
to my knees — calmer
than last time it happened
by a small degree,
gladder than last time
by far;

savoring gusts of 
lemon and honey, 
cinnamon and clove,
I close my eyes
to await the arrival 
of The Archer
who soon will come to see 
what has been taken this time.

Soon enough the work will follow:
the work of kissing down this pain, 
binding this wound, helping me
to my feet, raising me to full 
height, pushing me to walk on changed 

and no longer alone, together
breathing night-garden air.