Beautifully Venomous Revival Poem by Robert Rorabeck

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