Out from Ocean Beach, that white, mystic arc
spanning sea like a melting fluorescent
tube appears a rainbow’s lost ghost, its stark
absence of color making me repent
failed loves, spent fortunes, selfish wasted hours
lying to people I didn’t even
know, diverting sunlight away—not towards
them—like that fogbow’s fine mist must prevent
prismic hues from reaching artists’ eyes as
they stand on the cliff above us. Tell me,
last night when we said we loved—whispers passed
through darkness in passion and hope—did we
speak the truth or commit a sacrilege,
our vows soon dissolving like that pale bridge?
Roger Armbrust
May 29, 2008
