Never Coming Down Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This is where I live: this is where I live
Is good,
As I am starving on liquor, as it feels alright to
Estrange myself before the hospitals of the jungle of
Your eyes,
But I am naïve,
And the arcades are all Nordic and blue and filibustering
For the heroes desposed of in plane crashes:
Now the mountains never close, as I
Am becoming homeless again, while the sun is
Going down and I
Am moving towards you: and this is my art, Sharon-
That you can never feel,
But I am still moving towards you, while all of the horses
Fall asleep standing up in their fields,
And I can’t even suppose that you can truly feel me now,
While all of our grandmothers have fallen asleep in their
Graveyards,
And time marches on,
And Alma’s fleece is so brown, and it has spread across me,
And time has slowed down,
And her lips have embraced me, and it was the warmest sound
I have ever felt or stolen,
Even while she wants to be alone, and asleep with her own man
Flung across the fields that even the richest of heroes can
Pretend to have defeated
Across the diadem of islands, that talk amongst themselves like
Sisters,
While all of the ships have wrecked underneath the holidays of
Clouds that are so sad and weeping;
But deeply christened into their holidays; and they are never coming
Down.