How Beautifully The Church Rose Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have dressed up and done worship to girls whose
Eyes are as fat as lambs,
How simmer everywhere like the amethysts of geodes
Weeping mightily in other mens hands;
Oh, they wake up in bed and the flags of the mail are immediately
Raise:
They go to the smoke shop and get enough smoke to make the
Appalachians haze:
Bosomy and so round as to be caramelized apples, the spaces that
They drive become music boxes,
Controlled and sweet: they can never escape the luxuries that they
Pantomime:
They sweep the street like the moon at harvest time:
They are so full and luxurious as to be a house or at least a love
Seat unto themselves;
And then when they stop and listen, their eyes like water spiders
Skating across the crepuscule underneath the gesturing fans;
They don’t have anything to lay off of,
And they can’t remember how beautifully the church rose
Through all the mornings next to their bars,
Or how I tried to caracole them and catch them up in a plan
That I didn’t have enough legs for.