In Some Kind Of Esoteric Glory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You’ve slept with me, and we’ve made love:
But this has never been your home- but a place to run away.
Maybe an oasis;
Only my dog is here now- even the airplanes are gone,
And you make love with him too:
I’ve seen the evidence on your neck from time to time
In the same places that you’ve given me
The wounds that heal like apples still hidden in the trees
Down the rows to a professor’s house;
And the lake there holding out, the weather around it camouflaging
Where the giant woods live
And the hardware stores- the great silent long streaks of highways
Where the headlights cut through the darkness;
And when it snows, the wolves come onto the highway
Unafraid-
As if you and I were to meet in an airport filled with all the ambivalent
Light of people who never knew who we were
To each other;
And then running away into the darkness, and wings folding us
Together in some kind of esoteric glory I would be too afraid
To describe.