My legs are cold from drinking slow sips. <br />Again, I am upon the mountain in a wicked tent, <br />Slanting as if something trying to affect poetry, <br />Curious, <br />Looking at your sunburst eyes- Mascara the sundogs <br />Leaping very pagan and scarlet: <br />I lick and bite my lips trying to achieve the profound, <br />Trying to capture you abstractly, like running my fingers <br />Under the quicksilver fuselage of an airplane leaping <br />Low- Trying that foreplay in the ambers and <br />Precious natures of these burning woods, to have you in <br />A quiet though compromising manner unlike any other <br />Man might yet think of having you: all the stags <br />Juicily horned acquiring their leggy herds, trying to gather together <br />A bus of entire housewives, <br />But I would rather select you alone with all your pageantry of <br />Sad fashions, even though I am not so spectacular <br />To see the entire depths of your verdant nature. Even now <br />You are answering but just as softly as raindrops in a <br />Woodland bathtub; because you are already obligated to <br />A better harem, sashaying into the resins and ash left over <br />After the business of firemen, but I would rather stand around <br />In these fickle emolliations to catch one pestilent whiff <br />Of your complete corruption, for in that bouquet of rich <br />Compromises remains the essence of a cadaver of innocence <br />Playing across the playground of heartbroken memory.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/playing-across-the-playground-of-heartbroken-memory/
