Black dagger deep inside the gut can’t find
an exit, can’t penetrate steel curtain
of tortured years disguised as calm, as kind
gestures, as ironman responses to reigns
of terror. If I said those two distant
streetlights, seething auburn through misty dark,
are monsters’ eyes, you’d know in an instant
exact space I speak of. You’ve shared that stark
threat of gut-splattered streets, blood-soaked alleys
where hope’s flesh falls clawed, gnawed slick-clean from bones
left scattered to rot in acid rain. Pleas
bring relief only when we act, drop stones,
fold hands in submission. Don’t arch your brow
and say you don’t know what I mean. You know.
Roger Armbrust
May 3, 2013
