Perhaps today, bare winter trees screening
afternoon sun into bone-thin shadows—
lain like starved corpses across this winding
asphalt drive and still creek swelled with stuffed rows
of wet dead leaves—or perhaps Hillcrest’s cold
streets with stripped Christmas trees tossed onto curbs
I studied as I walked here, let unfold
this feeling like my constant dream (disturbed
heart pounding, body falling, forever
falling through sphered black hole, endlessly deep
gorge of Great Evil’s jaws). Or perhaps her
sad eyes—glowing like misty light—I keep
locked in my heart’s vault, gem of memories,
reflect my soul. Perhaps it’s all of these.
Roger Armbrust
January 9, 2008
