Lowering my voice and laying down my
body unstressed beside you—accented
measure of your sigh, your warm, flexing thigh
shivering to my conductor’s stroke—head
to foot our pores feel music flow through us,
beyond us. Love, are we not advancing
our species’ ageless proposition? Does
our soul’s guardian share spirit’s dancing,
need more proof than our eyes glancing, glowing?
Could Plato argue with our synthesis:
provocative positions bestowing
such contentious energy, only this—
our earth’s ultimate metaphysical
dialectic—could foil death, after all?
Roger Armbrust
November 9, 2009
