Look for the strings of stories, he told me:
some phrase of two passersby chatting; breeze
through willows whispering of humans free
as wind. He whispered this to me with ease
of a wren rising in air. He thought of
younger days, of his hunger for thunder’s
clash in bodies, spoke of a secret love
but didn’t call it love—spirit plundered
by her sigh, he said. I watched his sad eyes
and sought a story there, hoping to find
some deeper secret. Ending all replies,
he seemed to meditate, glaze like a blind
man’s glossing his gaze. I wanted to rhyme,
but didn’t. We stayed silent a long time.
Roger Armbrust
April 30, 2012
