Tell me again of solitude’s power,
of how I need you, not her, to grasp all
not in my hand but in my heart: stark hour
of meditation when my mind recalls
I can’t create false reality no
matter how I try or hope to. Rivers
run backwards only in pentimento
of my imagination, its liquored
and lacquered landscape reappearing like
flashing frames of a bad film. The townhouse
next door’s baby cries, leading my psyche
to window, sky, vast view where spirit’s roused.
It doesn’t take long to find you today
since I have yielded, decided to pray.
Roger Armbrust
September 4, 2010
