Most times I want to write lines or phrases
to create image, share experience,
but being servant here, sometimes phases
sweep in like locusts on wheat, resistance
only a shiver, then surrendering
to muse or cerebral projectionist,
whoever decides all focus bearing
on just one word…like…Word. Engrained like cysts
in a dove’s neck, typed letters bleed on page,
abstract pen-and-inks casting viewer’s eye
in solitary confinement. I rage
at W (bones of bird’s wing), I cry
at o (mouth in Munch’s Scream), then chuckle
at r (small scaffold), dodge d (brass knuckle).
Roger Armbrust
March 26, 2008
