for Gabriel Solis
I walk toward then along your glazed skyline,
seem to gaze through rain and unwiped windshield,
though your drying canvases rest inclined
against your studio’s pebbled wall, yield
to my senses as Manhattan’s structures
used to yield those years ago. I’ve known nights
when buildings blurred before me, eyes sutured
half-closed by drink and weariness, or plights
of passion crazing my focus. Ghosts spy
from those scarred windows etching rising rock
and steel grasping toward void. If they reply
to my calling out, suddenly unlock
those scraped, sealed doors, no need to feel alarm.
They’re spirits of love who’ll shield us from harm.
Roger Armbrust
January 7,
2014
