This night of our aesthetic agony,
this atmosphere which dissolves our breathing,
this distorting blackness and light we see
pouring through us with hypnotic seething
of dying stars, can we conceive its soul
somehow in our poems, in our sculptures
molded with course sands, raw silks slashed yet whole
at once—image of real lives ruptured
beyond repair yet healing through soft touch?
Can we still stand and hear our human songs—
simple lyrics like I love you so
much?
Can we still caress and dance all night long
to passion’s music deep within us, our
eyes igniting all galaxies’ power?
Roger Armbrust
August 5,
2013
