Been inside too long and away too long,
like held breath housing ancient resentment
or convict in solitary, love song
(he once sang her) sealed in sweaty cement
of dark stained cell walls. It’s what snow can do
to one’s psyche, you know: endless pure white
conniving with sun and shadow to screw
up vision and logic, turn care to spite,
like a seeing-eye Shepherd attacking
its master, or invisible leopard
slashing its shocking claws. Time’s contracting
memory: a punch-drunk fighter who sparred
with a brutal champ. It staggers through streets
lost, bruised, not even knowing it retreats.
Roger Armbrust
March 7, 2015
