Cry sometime for the shy turtledove <br />Hiding in his shell, <br />And for me, if you still believe I am real. <br />For I have gone beyond this ancient town- <br />I have followed the disenchanted cataracts, <br />And the stumbling tears, <br />For under this whipping flag is no place for <br />Wounded men to live and hunger, <br />As I have seen you kissing him without <br />Regret beside the shoreline of tattered lore: <br />It was then I noticed your eyes were the sunrise, <br />Pulled up in the necromancy of his bare arms, <br />And the millenary reservoirs of lips <br />Muting the tide and rising it in the exaltations <br />Of pollinated limbs. <br />This was all I could behold, and I have never <br />Seen anything so terrifying, that you <br />Had known him again and again, <br />The way the tide knows the compromising shore, <br />And wishes for it as clay wishes for its sculptor; <br />You bent into him like a twist of wood, <br />Who has lived passionately for its moment of life, <br />The flotsam, when discovered, metamorphosed <br />In his hands, and become a piece of breathing property; <br />It was then I ran, shrinking from the dawn you made, <br />And the sound flooding with the color, <br />Believe that my heart would melt like glass in a kiln, <br />To see you at it again, the angel too close to the sun. <br />I became the other thing, embracing the part of me <br />You never found, and in the miniature wilderness <br />Of diminished homes, I took a soundless wife, <br />And became the thing you neither touched nor saw.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sunrise-s-necromancy/
