Kisses Of Very, Very Different Kinds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cuddling at the far corner of the fair grounds
With the wind swept pornography,
While maybe Alma is in her warm corner of her
Warm house, doing her nails,
Turning her soft brown head up to the heavens,
And swearing,
Swearing: but when the day really gets out,
It sweats salt like pretzels,
And my belly rotunds underneath the swing sets,
And the greater bodies move back and forth,
At first running away,
And then being kidnapped-
And the days in their labors hold such a great stink of
Marbles- and the fawns lay in their fields,
Kissing their cloven feet,
While all around them is so softly mowed that all of
The ants are of one kind,
And to think of mountains- mountains in a cake
Of rainstorms, and of light night-
Is to purse ones lips to kiss and make wishes of very,
Very different kinds.