Consider how the poet feels when you—
as Akhmatova describes in her Muse—
suddenly appear at night in my room,
lyre at rest in your gentle arm, bemused
by my bedazzled gaze, throw back your shawl,
your lightning eyes bolting through my being.
What should I say to you? Do I recall
Anna’s verse, asking if you were giving
Dante words for The Inferno? Shall
I
speak of Neruda and Mathilde, how
we share their sense with soft touching when my
fingers feel you on surface of grapes? Now
at 2 a.m., fingers dance over keys.
Shall I say we’re building our history?
Roger Armbrust
January 21, 2013
