For the briefest of moments,

a glimmering sketch,
I incline my right cheekbone

one degree, untransfixed 
by the knowledge of him,

the frame of his arm,
his crumpled penumbra,

a whisker perhaps. 
As much in character

as anything else, I ask 
my new buddy, the vague

auditorium, the rippling, 
piercing green exit

signs: So what’s the Idea 

of a Schwarzenegger,

ploughmen’s arts not of earth?
Dialogue strays, indisposed for a punchline.

Woah, honeyed Silver. We rise before the titles.