I need to write a sonnet about death.
I need to jot a verse on loneliness.
I need to show soft glaze of winter breath
hazing stained glass with smoke’s disguised caress.
I need to record your right eye’s iris,
its floating silver fleck in sky-blue lake,
glinting hypnotic ruler, a virus
of passion inciting me to forsake
caution’s garden and echo ancient howls
of desire. I need to sharpen a quill,
make it bleed black consonants and vowels
cutting into open wounds fit to kill
opinion, drying into heaven’s scars,
causing gods to murmur, You’ve gone too far.
Roger Armbrust
November 13, 2011
