for L.
Sometimes, while contemplating your postcard,
I marvel how the camera loves you:
delicate impression, as if Vuillard
had controlled the lens, artist gazing through
to find the most sensual angle, catch
the bemused mouth at just the moment when
the viewer wants to kiss it, longs to watch
the lips curve to smile, laser eyes soften
to not-quite sadness, as if you’ll begin
the ballad at the start of your next breath,
loving what you do as the string within
the guitarist’s hand tremors, as if death
and life are mere lyrics within the song
of love for which we seek, for which we long.
Roger Armbrust
April 14, 2001
