Interweaving our moist bodies as one,
we shape something new: perhaps lace of flesh,
perhaps chemical elements’ union
redefining organic—cells enmeshed,
revolutionary biology
poets of later eras will record,
sensing how our tongues shun psychology,
spirits rely most on unspoken words
as our substance conceives to Beethoven’s
nocturne. What do our half-opened mouths voice
so far from language? If ever heaven
were a higher stage of truth, make our choice
composed of calm and passion. Make it here
where our inflected forms meld, free from fear.
Roger Armbrust
January 26, 2012
