The Ghosts Of Those Things Now Thoughtless Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I want to take you to that quieted reservoir where the
Twilight always plays its legs a across the lazing corrugations
As shadows bleed across given they pensive times, the lures
Of Florida Holly, or the bulldozed dunes; but you are busy playing
Those other sensory instruments which take off like thoughtless
Tracers after the desire of your eyes: You will not come with me on
My lonely walks, how many mountains I have summited alone,
Only to come down alone again, and bathe in that quieting dusk
Behind which the traffic passes just as insouciantly as you, without incident
Or sudden collision of unsuspecting bodies, like the required impact
Of bones framing organs and drowning blood, like I would have done with
You to seed such egos imbedded in the geometry of your movement,
You could never understand, but they would come wailing out of you,
Only to quiet, suckling on your tits, tugging out your creamy nourishments;
But you have walked away. Maybe you are moving to the Pacific, maybe
He is heavy bellied and red haired pubis and moving all upon you, his breath smelling of the food he fed you both tonight under the ambiance of a crowded, socializing restaurant. What can I say, but lie. I do not care. You’ve
Straightened your hair and look like an overweight snow white. No one should know that you are supposed to be out of the Ashkenazi forests and
Wind tunnels, except that you tell them with your jokes, and the subtle
Way you cross the street underneath the yet secular lights imbedded over
A lazy holocaust, the skin of your dead ancestors shading you, doing just
What my family warned me you were capable of, but I will not say anything More of that tonight, nor moan the ghosts of those things now thoughtless
Which only should have been....