Subterfuge of romance, because what other sort <br />Of subterfuge is there: all at once running away from war, <br />Running into France, <br />Looking at her gondola underneath all of those soft lights of <br />Romance: <br />Looking up her body like along the soft pews on Sundays: <br />Looking along her body and seeing her secret rosaries; and kissing <br />Them, <br />And speaking to them as if they were a soda fountain of your <br />Unborn children, <br />While the sky just fumes: while it is packaged by cool jets; <br />While its bodies of seraphim divide to multiply, like schoolyards <br />Of tankards of jellyfish in the sea; <br />And I wish so many times that I was better at these amusements: <br />Wish that I was really taking off all of her diamonds of her old <br />Times and speakeasies: <br />And this is all she is, folding down like fresh laundry in the dorm room <br />Of her freshmen, <br />Trapping her like the innocent nuances of all of my neophytes: <br />A dime of blood, a ruby seed, a blushing point and then a whisper of <br />A sea.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/then-a-whisper-of-a-sea/
