Love, you’ve watched me at my preying levels:
lower vertebrate like shark, my angry
mouth a seething spiracle. I’ll grovel
like leech to anesthetize as I try
to swallow you whole. I fear my bête noire,
drowning in black bile, fierce insanity
gazing in mirror, fancying a gar
reciting Hitler—epic vanity.
Yet you, my wise Metis, cunning magic
flowing from your fingertips, encircle
your lithe frame with gleaming steel. No tragic
end. You heal black humor with miracle
of wit. Sing how I’m the good shepherd’s lamb
(not the ass of burden we know I am).
Roger Armbrust
August 07, 2008
