Tumbling through the orchard’s sea: <br />Tumbling, tumbling tumbler; <br />Now you can’t say what I am looking for- <br />That I am looking for her who the mountains <br />Cry for- <br />Who they en crèche, <br />Engorged plum-colored, yes; <br />And the tourists come down long skied off their <br />Mountainous and acanthine esplanades, <br />And imbibe her spirits if they know what’s good <br />For them <br />And I want beer, and I want wine for my long haired <br />Honey- Oh, she is fine- <br />And I drink cheap, cheap wine, <br />And look into the sky, and curse airplanes- <br />Why- Why- That I should drink alone at night, <br />And kiss the Spanish Conquistador; <br />It is not right: <br />That I am scarred, and drunk, and defeated onto the <br />Floorboards of insouciant traffic and their haunts: <br />And I want to live forever, <br />And maybe I should- Or maybe not: <br />And the tent is breathing slight jazz, <br />And I really need my fallow faun: <br />My pallid doe, and if I was Don <br />John wouldn’t I already have her opal <br />Orchards picked and plunder and blinking in my <br />Suburban lawn.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tumbling-tumbling-tumbler/
