It was on these nights, dived deep into thought,
lost like a lark in murky swamp, she would
try to hear her breath, stagger, pause, heart caught
up in past phrases she regretted, could
not clear from her blood. Trembling hand reaching
out for something solid, touch unaware
of surface, oak or bronze. Was owl screeching
or inquiring? Only fog met her stare.
Lost. She knew he didn’t care. Where’d he go?
No, not again. Something cold caressed her
skin. Was it wind? Flakes of an early snow?
Memory transformed into ghost’s fingers
clawing at her body bathed in sin? Was
she crawling? Starved limbs rattled death’s applause.
Roger Armbrust
November 10, 2008
