If the dead bloom, they bloom just for you under your <br />Peeks of tourism; <br />And I have been doing nothing; and I am not warm, and I am <br />Growing tired like a pioneer given up between his passes; <br />And I remember you, <br />And as that you must sustain yourself of my flesh: <br />Because I am not beautiful enough to pass beyond into the <br />Promised land of your sanctity: <br />That the wolves are un collared and set loose and they know the <br />Same names as the places where my names know and repeat, <br />In the latest hour before my parents are returning home <br />To their little place beside the canal <br />To interrupt my profession; and I am thoroughly enamored, <br />And yet I have almost saved enough to buy a beautiful house for you: <br />And your daughter is just as beautiful and as well kept as you: <br />And I want to stand out perfectly in your easements and <br />In your storms rumors sell perfect things for you; <br />And I am failing again tonight for you: and my night is just a plagiarism <br />For you, <br />And now I can see the lights of another sad return: and the day is over, <br />And the doors are slammed and people are home and the lights <br />Are emptied because you are not home; <br />And your eyes are absolutely perfect underneath the very same moon <br />That pulls my strings so very far away from me.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/so-very-far-away/
