I’m trying to go to sleep; but I’m harrowed: <br />I think your p*ssy is ethereal- <br />It really is a candle flame, and you have red <br />Hair: <br />And if I cut my ear off, and painted you <br />Sunflowers; I could lay you across these <br />Springs and have it; I could make you sing out, <br />And smell your breath, and go about the <br />Oldest definitions in the book without really <br />Thinking about it, just like two old professors <br />Studying their old English: <br />And if this is really a song, it goes silently like <br />A poor child drowned in the ice-cold river; <br />And if this is a psalm, it starts by speaking of <br />Your two red legs opening, diving the river, <br />Giving conjunctions: and contours, <br />And I haven’t really gotten to it, what I really <br />Meant to say about your p$ssy; about that <br />Spot, Tom and Rebecca exploring: <br />There should really be a philosophy meant to <br />Expound it, and a profession just set up to enjoy it: <br />And maybe there is, a carnival and a circus; <br />While I’m standing on the cliff surrounded by <br />Caracoles and the strange young purposes of man: <br />And you are really the velvet bull’s eye I was meant to <br />Hew for, to perfect a cure for: And thus I go flying <br />With my eyes closed to dream about you, to strip <br />And peal for, and to slip behind the secretive curtains <br />Of those wet-walled cliffs who lay down crying for <br />Me to explore.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/explore-4/
