Orchard Of Such Splendidly Misplaced Gifts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Over the chaos rumbles that we’re are soon
Approaching our time,
And she has great breasts to which
I look out for
All through that stormy myth,
And it is a great scar to know that she is
Approaching,
Dragging that cloudy ship,
All the young men she has claimed by a song,
And I have seen her amidst the aloe
And the extinct, moist toads,
Seen her like a slender bee somewhere
In the gladiolas,
Something gothic about her,
Something misplaced—
An all too ready myth, a hybrid of my song,
Something not only flesh,
And I would like to take her hand—
Didn’t I say I would like to take her hand
And lead her through the fading pornographies
The choicest junked cars all their doors
And trunks opened housing crèches of dead
Pine needles on mottled leather—
Take her across the canal, the border for
Such definitions,
Smell her nostalgias like high school,
Heady in the early morning maybe out
Upon the baseball diamond hemmed
By the chanting palm fronds again
Into the humid myth—
\Across the canal and into the cool truancies
Of such living rooms,
All out and smoking and lost,
And the end of this thing, fingered cross-stitched
And into the next set of satisfied lips,
And the better words left unspoken,
But the only thing remembered turning around
And around and around all up and
Down an orchard of such splendidly misplaced
Gifts.