Paris, Arizona Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Paris, Arizona



In the White Mountains of
Northern Arizona this evening,
The rain gently falls
where I live,
As if the earth has asked
The sky to make soft
Romance with him
As the sun fell weeping
Like a wandering monk
Over the hills in the
West,
Lighting last upon Molly's
Nipple rising up
Perpetually areolaed in stone
Where she sleeps
Across the valley....

Soon the moon will slip
Out of her tempermental
Boudoir
In her gown of beautiful
Muted light, and
The earth will ask her
If she saw him making
Love to the sky,
But the moon will only shush
Him
With a finger of opal light
And there she will glide
Like a pale maiden
Through a lake
Looking for her burning priest
Who, like you right now,
Is running on the other side
Of my world,
Doing things which are
Hidden from me,

But soon you will
See her too,
As she comes to the shore
And slips away again.
For we sleep together
In a garden where gods
make love in the sky.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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