The Bosom Of Her Very Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Watercolored ways and hills,
Laughing across the mines of her birthstones:
All the smoldering like ephemeral steps up to
Dragons,
And the airplanes in their warm mobiles for
Titans;
In the great star crusted basins of this America
Where I have stretched and become lost and
Wept for her,
Seeing her woebegone beauty above tree line,
Watching those things that have evaporated like the thoughts
Of the things she’s forgotten swaying in the censers
That can never be felt like this;
All the secret crushes of keystones, the beauty trapped above
The social realm where the skin blushes from burst
Blood vessels,
Where the reindeers’ cenotaphs nuzzle- Where greater pilots
Go to when they sleep,
Over Alma’s roof, and all of that soul’s young wealth,
Going up and up emolliating in her favorite colors, in the insouciant
Banners of a nameless gods’ breathing,
Trapped in the tatters of less impressive holidays:
The world stands still at the pinnacle of justice for boys who can
Never grow up,
Who have left the stoop of the bus stop, abandoning the hypnotized
Chickens,
Instead deciding to climb the devil’s rock without the lookouts of
Sun,
Just to see how she feels in bed with the man she loves: there
Across the world high up in the aerie’s room:
The bosom of her very soul that even she cannot dream to see.