drifting this way through night like wool blanket
over sweaty torso, dragging its slow
thick weight off soaked bed. Heat lightning flanks it
like dire, dying neon sign. Slight wind blows
warnings of coming gusts, then steady sweep
of howls, pellets splattering our shaky
panes. Now something like a storm sharply leaps
through me, starting to lash like harsh waves we
swam drunk on nights when rash squalls assaulted
us. Remember Lake Ouachita that dark
July when we challenged its width, vaulted
dead branches and dove deep, then rose to stark
chill of reality, both breast stroking
back to near shore, slurring in our joking?
Roger Armbrust
April 29, 2010
