It is perhaps how I separate you
from crowds surrounding us in selected
rows. Or how I trace serene attitude
of your hand, your gentle grace reflected
by resting it on couch’s crown like swan’s
wing curled in sleep. Or how I focus eyes
on your eyes as you focus on stark dawn
of honest words. Or how your smile implies
you’re pleased to see me. I dissect every
motion, every pause. That’s what poets do.
I do it because cosmos cleverly
unites our essence in such subtle views,
I might miss you. Like my briefest acclaim:
Your cheek. My shoulder. Your soft voice. My name.
Roger Armbrust
October 10,
2012
