Mount Nebo in the Wasatch Range, charcoal
and chalk-knuckled fist. Lazarus after
four days, bareboned, dark-earthstained, sweatsoaked, soul
confused with its fate. King Henry’s laughter
when he learns Jane Seymour’s birthed him a boy,
his highness’s pulsating paunch causing
hiccups. Applause expressing honest joy
with Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma, sing-
er’s arms signaling victory. Crimson
sun in slow-mo from Atlantic’s blue vest.
A sonnet’s image for no real reason
from deep in psyche’s buried treasure chest.
And I from my self-saturated gloom
when you, spirit’s muse, flow into our room.
Roger Armbrust
May 17, 2010
