Playing Across The Playground Of Heartbroken Memory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My legs are cold from drinking slow sips.
Again, I am upon the mountain in a wicked tent,
Slanting as if something trying to affect poetry,
Curious,
Looking at your sunburst eyes- Mascara the sundogs
Leaping very pagan and scarlet:
I lick and bite my lips trying to achieve the profound,
Trying to capture you abstractly, like running my fingers
Under the quicksilver fuselage of an airplane leaping
Low- Trying that foreplay in the ambers and
Precious natures of these burning woods, to have you in
A quiet though compromising manner unlike any other
Man might yet think of having you: all the stags
Juicily horned acquiring their leggy herds, trying to gather together
A bus of entire housewives,
But I would rather select you alone with all your pageantry of
Sad fashions, even though I am not so spectacular
To see the entire depths of your verdant nature. Even now
You are answering but just as softly as raindrops in a
Woodland bathtub; because you are already obligated to
A better harem, sashaying into the resins and ash left over
After the business of firemen, but I would rather stand around
In these fickle emolliations to catch one pestilent whiff
Of your complete corruption, for in that bouquet of rich
Compromises remains the essence of a cadaver of innocence
Playing across the playground of heartbroken memory.