Swings Of Iron Pyrite Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I love you but I live alone in my park,
And my dogs get so scared they never bark;
And late at night I masturbate:
I hate that I do it,
On the swings of iron pyrite,
But its all I do:
I can barely spell it, but I do it,
And you are not here anymore:
You are gone into the common tourisms of
Colorado:
Colorado; it is a beautiful place to be,
And I can hear another beer being opened:
My uncle Robert lives in Colorado;
Isn’t he your unpublished hero living in the trailer parks
Of a never mind of never land.
Maybe you went to college in his backyard,
Maybe you unknowingly held is hand:
I can hardly communicate,
But I have made love to mountains.
They have taken your place:
I really wanted to make love to you,
When you said you wanted to be real,
Real;
But you are the center of the universe, inescapable;
That is place I want to lie into,
Like a terrapin down deep into the center of the crenulated
Bus;
Like ants marching away into their queen:
And, Dear S-,
I wish I was more beautiful so that I might fully configure to your
Bloom;
But aren’t you something now, with your daughter,
S-, and fully formed, and A-:
You will go on forever, I think:
I think you will go on forever,
Even after the rivers have refused to speak,
While I cant really know what I am doing:
I just want to make love to something good,
While even now all the Christmas trees are up and fully decorated,
Like the mothers of ancient times,
And maybe I will find my love again and banish her
Again back into the kindergarten of your
Open mouths,
Sweating, filled, and yet they still cannot speak.