Her Inconsiderate Moonlight Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another busied soldier waits upon the tarmac
Of a sepulcher—
This is how it's been forever since we've been selling
Christmas trees—
In the venomous thoughts of my soul, reticulated
To the labyrinth—and to a sea of unconsummated
Tears—
Never remembering so many words—why the soldiers
Are still fighting,
And the memories resurrect themselves after midnight:
When the damage is already being done,
And the televisions of daylight are over with—
And the dogs are spinning around underneath the moons
Chasing their own shadows
Stolen in flight—I remember that once upon a time
In a rainstorm you came to my house,
And fluttered there beneath my evangelical make-believe:
Moth in a consummation of a wedding in the
Daylight—kissing both of my wrists like the repetitions in
The meters of plagiarists—as another crowd surrenders
Its hearts into the sunlight, and agrees to come up
And up—to finally see her, my most beautiful of
Muses—as, yes, she dresses in the great opulence of
Her inconsiderate moonlight.