Sometimes rippling of our bodies beyond
small obstacles and openings diffracts
into impotent night. Sometimes second
thoughts form rage-forced currents, brutal, exact
as surgeons’ knives dissecting our senses,
our vital organs, memory and hope.
Sometimes during parties, my flesh winces
as I slouch on thick couch, smoking bad dope,
a coastal island enveloped by sea
of pillows, you lying on flushed carpet
with spilled drink, our outbursts storming sadly
through old friends, sweeping them past parapets
of tolerance. Wounded dolphins, they dive
in swift retreat, desperate to survive.
Roger Armbrust
February 17, 2009
