It’s the small void between the heart and gut
where our consciousness bleeds without ceasing,
that single invisible slight wound cut
by desire, healed by one voice so pleasing
we can hear the heavens sing, feel the choice
of angels’ eternal decisions. Fold
me in warm chords and rhythms of that voice.
Hold my memory of histories told
to Homer and Dante, Shakespeare and Frost.
Oh, welcome my muse with tender laughter
soft as wind through willow trees. When I’m lost
in confused corridors of fear after
I’ve obsessed too long, let her whisper words
as she always does: sounds the soul has heard.
Roger Armbrust
February 17,
2013
