Sunny Day's Fairy-Tale Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have the idea I can give anything over to you;
Or I can make you real, sung into the estuaries torpid
Over stones fumbling;
Here, your eyes are on the brink of little foxes,
And in the house at your lip my little boy is sailing airplanes
Made of creased paper to sleep atop ceiling fans:

They will burn. We will burn it all down for you, given
Turns in the parks after all our peers have run away to
Beautiful colleges where they learn: I will burn this whole
Town down for you, on Halloween or tomorrow:
I will ride my bicycles while they burn sugar-cane,
You will echo in the hallway of my penultimate scars.
I get new ones to avoid you, but it is impossible when you
Waif, when you slip naked amidst the shallows
And turn stiles.

I masturbate onto green carpet, or with the hall pass into empty
Lockers. Jason Shwartzbaum chews tobacco and we buzz
Through math. The little Jew, or the tiny architect:

Now how you’ve flown like a schooner with preternatural
Sails, how you smell like Dr. Pepper and shampoo,
And I molest this fairy-tale.
Even when I get up at 8,000 feet to feed the horses.
Even when my life is gone, and with my new scars I
Am evolving, or I am a monster who has torn it all away from
Me: You come, and the forest becomes a green hallway with
Doors off to science or biology, and inside like a prism,
So many visions of you turned away, hung upon him,
Draped like dew on grass French-kissing, a hero;

if I come
For you we will both be defeated, but from the tops of mountains
Light suicides like daydreams, and little girls fall like
Rain showers; and so I come, and the sugar-cane burns in the west,
And the marching band plays its drums in a thunderstorm;
Nakedly, she makes you out of clay with her barren hands to wait
For my breath to awaken, to kiss him in interludes thrumming, so I come: a fingerprint touching you under the broken down bus;

We skip class over the canal, and all this while I am
A machine whose purpose it is to hide and seek,
To awaken you from an oil slick chrysalis and watch you drive
Away humming to the instruments of fireworks and sad bonfires,
Your jawbone an opal cup magnetized over the steering-wheel,
Directing you to that great water; but there you see

Just the embers of rum and waves,
As your tune recedes in forgotten memory
How you wanted me to come out and play, and the
Lions roared entrenched in their habitat; My heart but
A tourist yours devoured, and then went along its sunny day.