The family sleeps in gloom, and I am just waking up: <br />And the world hasn’t recognized me, just as I haven’t yet learned <br />The gloom of all of these flowers: <br />I am absolutely imperfect and beautiful, and I am going down on <br />You in a wishing well, <br />Because I Haven’t yet given up on you: <br />My whole life is a musical, and I cherish on swings in the midnight, <br />Or in crepuscule, <br />And I don’t even care that I don’t even know the law: <br />Or that all that I can see you in is in black and white, <br />Or that you are only my sick muse <br />And turned down the part of Frankenstein, and this is just <br />A train ride of a little girl in a cherished hurricane; <br />Or that I cannot drive a truck right now, Sharon, or that I haven’t <br />Chased a girl on into Mexico, as if I weren’t a butterfly <br />Impossibly changing, or drinking your spirits, <br />Because you are my unicorn: Sharon: you are my America, <br />And I cannot help but to keep waking up for you and doing what <br />I do for you, <br />Sharing my spirits with the toothless hobos underneath the overpass: <br />And I have new dreams that aren’t even right, <br />Because I have stolen new bicycles underneath the censers of <br />Mars and you aren’t even mine; <br />And again, tonight, tonight: you aren’t even mine, tonight, <br />But to the throat of a funny werewolf you go, like a rose that has no <br />Home but to the strange placed you give, placed in the theaters <br />Of your hungry snows.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/your-hungry-snows/
