When I turn far from you, love, I’m somehow
diminished, though mere phantom to your eye,
I’m sure. When I orbit closer, I bow
my head, body spinning with Nijinsky’s
grace, honoring your briefest audience,
focus of my eternal ellipse, soul
powerless to stop wandering space, tense
with fear of losing myself, my lone role
in our universe. You understand, I
know: It’s not distance deciding seasons
within me. Rather, gentle tilt of my
head and feet in endless dance determines
chill in my chest, my thighs’ constant burning,
fingers pressed to wet lips as I’m turning.
Roger Armbrust
July 6, 2009
