How high do you want to go? How far must
you stretch that ancient breath? How deep through shades
of memory to hints of light and dust
swept off old pamphlets listing mistakes made
in past lives you regret yet learn to notch
like deaths on your poor heart’s leathery flesh?
You whisper confessions of loves you botched,
of minds abandoned, accept how these fresh
wounds bleed through old scars. When can you ever
bring it home again, or did Thomas know
the truth? He did, didn’t he. You never
relive, only live anew. Rhythms flow,
but you must carve each line, howl each lyric,
admit any victory is pyrrhic…
Roger Armbrust
December 14, 2015
