What am I supposed to do when stark room
magically turns gold as you enter,
stride with grace to couch or chair? Then assume
that soft, shy posture, aware you’re center
of attention, surely mine. Even when
focusing on speakers, I sense slight turn
of your head, your intense eyes glance, glisten,
catch my glance, or I yours. What makes me yearn—
as your fingers squeeze your thoughts—to touch your
hand, silently signal how we’re all loved
and not alone? How is it I feel cured
when you laugh? There’s some ancient goddess, gloved
in velvet, stroking my face when your taut
calves stretch and cross. She whispers how I’m caught.
Roger Armbrust
May 1, 2013
