blast of winds that have sent me gyring past
myself into vast symbols, eternity
revealing itself through translucence, cast
in linings of cocoons, infinity
reveled via the caterpillar’s thread.
I have known plight borne by protagonists
caught up in plots of ancient books I’ve read,
their covers decayed, crumbling—egoists
tumbling down despair’s blackened cavern, hands
lashing out for slightest branch or crevice
teasing to break the fall. I have known lands
where prophets limped through sand dunes, their service
no more than rhythmic words wheezing through thin
lips, while scorpion stings blistered their skin.
Roger Armbrust
January 25, 2011
