Admiring your back for an hour, your fair
hair ponytailed, your neck and flexed shoulders
hinting at swimmer’s strength, seated in chair
with psychic’s patience—Were I a bolder
man, I’d ignore those clustered around you,
step close to your aura, drop to a knee
and whisper one line from cummings of “blue
true dream of sky” (your eyes), of ebony
jacket tag (I first perceived as tattoo)
stretched on your neck’s nape. You make poetry
rhythms easy down to your running shoes.
Somehow your head’s slight tilt springs reverie.
Tonight I listen, recall when I heard
(at hour’s end) Akhmatova in your words.
Roger Armbrust
April 7, 2014
