to the long rock wall across North Lookout
from my writing room windows sounded like
Ben Gunn’s rusty voice lisping whereabouts
of treasure—whispers of how, as a tyke
I’d dream of sailing, not pirates’ rough seas
but starlight air like Barrie’s boy who would
never grow up. What I shouted to leaves
of my parking lot’s white oak, these words should
never be repeated or remembered.
What I thought about at lunch today when
her blessed breasts pressed to me won’t be rendered
here—sighs saved for confessing mortal sins
to some blind priest far from home, words of drama
to even shake faith of the Dalai Lama.
Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2010
