Alma, the suns of liquor burn my throat: <br />I am wearied and undone, just an illusion now on the <br />Deserts of my bachelor’s domesticity: <br />Your elephants hang above my head across from <br />Monet’s sailboats, <br />And everything I have ever done has broken and turned <br />To the cinders <br />Of a careless match in the once green mountains: <br />And pretty boys still go out to make love to anyone <br />Even through the audacity of sudden and <br />Violent rain, <br />But all by myself all I can think of is touching your brown <br />Skin, <br />Of squeezing it for a little while in my imperfect hands, <br />Of rolling you across the cotton caesuras of my bed; <br />And my desires of having my own wife and children <br />In a sea that only knows your eyes and senses: <br />That I love you through the concordance of this chaos of motion, <br />While all of the heavenly bodies spin and lose their heads, <br />And I keep settling down to the bottles of a fermenting metamorphosis, <br />While the monarch butterfly or its imposter flew over my <br />Shoulder today, <br />While I was just around the corner from where you attended <br />Your register, <br />Punching in the beautiful numbers before sending all the strangers <br />Outside the tents of your <br />Beautifully venomous revival.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beautifully-venomous-revival/
