The One Ring

A hundred precious bands glint 
on this flat nineteen inch screen,
their rough, antiqued textures
arousing hunger in my hands.

I must see each ring by candelight,
or flashed by white-hot lightning,
beside the foaming Atlantic,
among moist, mosquito-stroked
trunks in a summer forest,
on the brink of a yawning red rock chasm
while blood rushes through my ears.

I need to palm the metal's weight,
turn the ring round and round,
abrade my skin with its whorls
to find which one rubs me best.
Which ring will feel at home
on your finger, and in my hand
through and beyond the time 
of us growing old together?

Which one tells our magic tale
through frozen tangles of metal?
Which band radiates our heat 
through a warm luster 
cast especially for us?

If only I could stare
into that burning crucible,
when molten metals flow into a mold
to fill our hollows...

Scott Speck
10/04/2003