Over the chaos rumbles that we’re are soon <br />Approaching our time, <br />And she has great breasts to which <br />I look out for <br />All through that stormy myth, <br />And it is a great scar to know that she is <br />Approaching, <br />Dragging that cloudy ship, <br />All the young men she has claimed by a song, <br />And I have seen her amidst the aloe <br />And the extinct, moist toads, <br />Seen her like a slender bee somewhere <br />In the gladiolas, <br />Something gothic about her, <br />Something misplaced— <br />An all too ready myth, a hybrid of my song, <br />Something not only flesh, <br />And I would like to take her hand— <br />Didn’t I say I would like to take her hand <br />And lead her through the fading pornographies <br />The choicest junked cars all their doors <br />And trunks opened housing crèches of dead <br />Pine needles on mottled leather— <br />Take her across the canal, the border for <br />Such definitions, <br />Smell her nostalgias like high school, <br />Heady in the early morning maybe out <br />Upon the baseball diamond hemmed <br />By the chanting palm fronds again <br />Into the humid myth— <br />\Across the canal and into the cool truancies <br />Of such living rooms, <br />All out and smoking and lost, <br />And the end of this thing, fingered cross-stitched <br />And into the next set of satisfied lips, <br />And the better words left unspoken, <br />But the only thing remembered turning around <br />And around and around all up and <br />Down an orchard of such splendidly misplaced <br />Gifts.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/orchard-of-such-splendidly-misplaced-gifts/
