Love, shall I write you passionate letters
chanting devotion like you’re a goddess?
Maybe sexy phrases bringing titters
or deeper panting? Moan of longing? Stress
how your absence blackens our moon above,
turns tides to dissipation, my psyche
to desperation? How touching your glove
once inflamed my soul, ardor’s alchemy?
No. Let me say how I pay attention
to hint of eye wrinkle, slight nose pimple,
blemished dimple, discover sensation
in the real you. I still feel our simple
caress by the white door, pressed cheek to cheek,
smiles of hiding children afraid to speak.
Roger Armbrust
February 3, 2010
