The Arrow Paradox

If everything when it occupies an equal space is at rest, and if that which is in locomotion is always in

a now, the flying arrow is therefore motionless. —Zeno, as refuted by Aristotle

Drink with me in this zinging arrow −

this train, in our borrowed, cracked maroon 

leather booth. Let's share a beat-up,

scratched carafe of sangiovese − 

to soothe the track-and-dish 

clamor, and free the dashing day. 

In our car, let's float with the landscape

as the outside field keeps still; while

one scrub brush, in military dusted green, 

frantically focuses a second, split 

through our buzzing, blistered 

window frame. Breathe in with me

what the barreling coach has saved: 

smoke − the skin of patience, carnival, 

and temper − and honey − delicious 

depth of worn wood gone against 

the grain. See the comb, the pulse, 

the flight of light − disturbed, overcome 

with dust, the gritty glitter contained 

around us while dispersed like seeds, 

like senses, the soft crush of longing, thirst,

a moment come to halt and locomotive,

this pair of ringing goblets and a toast − 

to approach, how carrier and carried meet.