The night is a stogy panther- With you in it <br />Further north and away, <br />And in it always remaining those things I cannot <br />Spell and thus cannot say- <br />Prancing, newly pronged- a lackadaisical knight <br />Out in his hermit-pilgrimage, <br />How often do you really think of me: <br />When you can’t see these scars, they leave you pretty <br />Much alone- Oh, but they haunt me, <br />Driving me like bumper cars- <br />I have been up in my lonely room, laughing with my <br />Dogs, while you scrimshaw on your beach, <br />Fully armed- Often, I think I can smell you, <br />The richness of your sweaty junctures, the perfume <br />Of your clammy cloisters: <br />But I should not even try to comprehend what I cannot <br />Spell- I have grown a beard to hide myself- <br />I think it best to hide you as well.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-night-61/
