How it opens- bright as tennis courts <br />In a voiceless springtime: so privileged, and with their <br />Young hands on their bodies, <br />Watching the waves over half a hemisphere: <br />Sometimes it must come across them that <br />This is exactly what the conquistadors came across- <br />But, very soon, <br />Their young bodies are busied by the pestilence <br />Of their busy arcs, <br />And the silver airplanes cross them like werewolves, <br />And their art dissolved <br />And becomes the better part of another transparency of <br />The middle glass- <br />And it never gets better than this: <br />A little vermillion Christmas tree a kissing cousin <br />To the television, <br />And their little sisters sleeping side by side with the <br />Very science fiction of ghosts: <br />And when they wake up tomorrow- somehow <br />Losing another tooth- they will finally decide <br />What they’ve figured out- and you will <br />Slip down beside him, <br />Kissing his brown lips- and loving him with your brown <br />Eyes.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/with-your-brown-eyes/
