power of touch when, passing by you reached
out, squeezed my forearm, released it and walked
through the door? It doesn’t take much for each
gesture to create a universe. Talk
of weather and I hear an aria
honoring cosmos. No wonder you smile
shyly when I stare, mute hysteria
overwhelming my eyes, their glazing while
you glance at me, wondering where I’ve gone.
Probably I’m skydiving, falling high,
scanning hurtling earth below, often prone
to wonder where you are, your luscious thighs
crossed like sacred arcs, your mouth a cupped rose.
I miss you now. But that’s the way it goes.
Roger Armbrust
September 4, 2009
