I Know I Believe- In Fact I Burn Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lapping in the wound of your eyes-
With very little costume, I don’t know what else to
Say- The basest of elements, I yet attract nearer
Where you root in the colonnade
Of colored spaces;
Everything I have chosen to speak has turned
Corruptive, but such ash can be used to emblazon
The hills across the valley-
And even when times are tough, there is reason to
Succeed from the canvas you are looking out
From, the paradox of necessity:
I would have to pick your fruit and sell it to all the
Carnival tourists to keep you alive;
I would have to allow this other man to take you as
His seed of family,
But it meant the crèche of your unspoken joy,
That crippling thing that pantomimes, that doesn’t even
Correct its spiraling descent into the apathetic pines;
I would like to speak to you across country,
But it cushions all sorts of blades either in my chest or
Soul, the ratty innards always gnawing-
Every part of you is the arcade men turn pugilist for,
And for that reason I am a defeated victor,
Puzzling his tongue over the sadness of your beauty,
Even more cryptic coming toward the nude winter:
And caracoled in the greater downs of the darker sea.
If men were to really see, they would wither; and so they
Only play on fingers, leaving me alone to break the trail
Toward the beautiful apex you have no reason for;
That is you religion fluttering in tulip prayer flags that
I know I believe- In fact I burn.