When image comes, it consumes. When phrase coats
throat like melted chocolate, vinegar,
or acid, no choice remains but to float
to stunned keyboard, observe my gnarled fingers
begin their passionate yet timid dance.
Dark letters fill white space with stuttered pace:
slow step, brief lurch, sudden dash, nimble prance.
Phrase grows to line grows to column. This grace
of sight and sound, this tight list of reason
and illusion, this gathering of mist
and memory into days and seasons
of sacred chants proves how Erato kissed
Sappho’s quill, how Calliope embraced
Homer as his dazed hands studied her face.
Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2013
