Scented Softly Of Your Touch Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The clouds gather over the warm blood of
A bull fight that just happened to pass;
And I sit on my couch and hold myself before
The great transoms looking out
On the doubtless street, and the housewives curl into
Themselves like agoraphobic ballerinas or
Wildflowers;
And this is just a touch of a thing, meant to linger on your
Lips and in the neighborhood of your beauty mark
Which is on your left hemisphere
While you walk all around like a titan laughing and
Besmirching the reasons behind the first world
Nations whose triple colored flag you bask under,
Your eyes so rich and so round
As to capture and entrench the sailors and teach them
How to drink forever:
And you called your man into the fruiteria today to unlock
Your car,
Because I was already gone to sell fireworks in Miami,
And when I came back again, wanting to make love to you,
I was already too late:
You had reached grandmothers, and had your apples and
Your wolf;
And my ax is dull and lazy from too many fairytales,
While the airplanes come down like feathers in a snow storm;
And the clouds just make blotches,
While the waves only rebound in chaos, their caesuras
Happening without reason, like the narrowness of a brown vase
My fingers caressed scented softly of your touch before
You went away.



Alma.