You who lift my poems with gentle hands
and press them to the moon, feel reflection
project each word’s silhouette like commands
from ancient gods, tell me what you see when
you focus on each phrase. Describe deep dreams
your pulse perceives with each matching rhythm,
when every wisp of whispering breath streams
from your lips into night. Do you hear hymns?
Voices from distant civilizations?
Warnings from eons’ prophets? Or simply
my whisper close to your ear. My vision
of you as you’ve never seen. Oh, reply
how you, too, desire to meld our flamed senses
with our moon’s bright face, its shadowed provinces.
Roger Armbrust
February 24,
2014
