Blinding A Better Man With Your Kiss Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Reading too much Walden to have a jubilee:
Thoughts about that lake just go on and on, but it's
Not a pretty lady; it's not sex, and I skip chapters,
And I would have a hard time summarizing: I bight
My cheek- I wonder if spiders have scars, like these
Walls, these villages with legs, and dimly lit eyes
For windows: Walking up some hill, walking down:
Walking, walking: I read Of Walking In Ice,
The window is slightly opened, like a cracked shell
No one is home, so intrude, but it is cold inside
And on into dreams the letters continue; they have been
Crossed out, corrected. Remarried, they parade. I am
In the middle of a great rainstorm; it never rains,
And I breathe in these newly painted motes where ghosts
Should walk. I walk underneath the ancient pillars for
Railroads. The grass is mowed here. There is a quarry
Fenced off. I don’t believe in my parents anymore, though
They sometimes call: They’ve always had it in for me-
That two headed monster in their bed I should never go
Back to. The horses have killed the trees, and if I slip
Away it will be to the other side of the Mississippi,
To culture and slavery again- Postbellum promises of
Better fairytales just in the vicinity where you are blinding
A better man with your kiss.