black night crawled like a panther prowling late,
silent in its stalking, only stark eyes
piercing dark space as we balked in our gait,
knelt in garden’s void, slender tender thighs
touching slight as cloth on bone after flesh
has gone, after breath has ceased long ago,
like acrylic dissolved years after fresh
strokes by some lonely artist only flow
in memory, canvas bare as shard-scraped
carcass. We let our hands speak, our fingers
oracles of bodylight, our pores draped
in perspiring jewels. Your scent lingers
still, sensual incense caping moonlight,
hazy white panther prowling late black night.
Roger Armbrust
June 10, 2010
