Into My Windmills Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Eloquence in the starving amphitheater—
By another song to be doing this,
Disappearing by riding bicycles and speaking of
Housewives and getting
Married to a woman that cannot exist by
Herself in this country—
Her true love sober if far away—
And the truancy of her body's limbs from my shore
Designating the nest of her softest places:
Taking her virginity at thirty and
Riding the bus with her—trying to remember how
Wet the waves got that we have never tasted together,
Even if she doesn't like roses—
She has already bought me my birthday present over
And over—like the sun and the moon rolling over
The earth,
Her body the milky place of smoothed cataracts that falls
Like milk and pearls into my windmills.