Li Po would drink alone, talk and sing to
the moon, dance and marvel how his shadow
followed his lead to perfection. I who
don’t drink this evening still mirror his show:
sit and stare instead of sip, speak aloud,
sharing my sonnets, hum a Broadway tune
or Dylan’s Sad-Eyed Lady, rise like cloud
beneath our beaming disk, knowing it soon
will slip through black-laced tree clusters, fragments
of light still commanding dark night like bent
giant’s chip-toothed smile. Then this sacrament
of space will break free, gleaming to portray
black-pearl silhouette of my body’s sway.
Roger Armbrust
June 25, 2010
