I keep repeating it in a whisper
as I lie in bed, rhythm vibrating
darkness as if I’ll somehow disappear
resolving into foreign countries, bring
luggage beside me in each, Greece perhaps
and Germany, or distant orbits like
Venus and our moon. Now set as two chaps
wandering different auras, psyches
surrounded by forms blending images,
we echo their evolving meldings: smog,
brunch, woons for our icemilk. Then in muterage
we sight gerrymandering, napalm, log
our brief lists of morphings much less rueful,
fill our ginormous needs to feel clueful.
Roger Armbrust
November 2, 2010
