Garden Of Your Lip Service Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The roses grow up:
They learn their way: they get straight up
And do the day:
They go to town, they make love too:
The roses, the roses, am me and you:
I see you across the street: I go to you and you
I meet,
And I kiss you and lay you down,
And buy you roses,
And kiss you in your car before you drive away
To your man:
Before you return your house on the spinning
Topaz world:
You who came to me across the arid sea:
You who came to me so I couldn’t paint wings on
You as I worked beside you,
Alma: and I kept all of your secrets while I remained
Alive:
I brushed next to you, like a butterfly who happened down
Into your fire, but who was dying anyways,
And only wished to kindle you some more somehow:
And I so became fruit for your lips,
Whose firing flesh leapt busily, and entrepreneuringly
Ate my metamorphosis,
Until I became a garden of your flesh.