I
wait by the gate, since you don’t. I wait
for
her to reveal deep sorrow honest
as
lightning striking a sinful priest, fate
repelling
him in mist of mass, infest
of
faithful scattering among desert
places.
Close your ballad, harmonica
trilling,
rhyming and whining in concert
with
strings and drums, knowing she will flick a
bone
or a ring or a song when striding
toward
me like a canonized siren who’s
made
amends with wounded lovers, riding
the
prophet’s promise: how dead angels lose
only
fear while gaining paradise while
you
leave and I stay to glimpse her sad smile.
Roger Armbrust
April 25, 2012
