The Imperfect Art Of My Ever Cherished Secret Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If this is my last poem,
Then it is the last poem I shall write for her.
As she has turned away disbelieving
The grief in my flesh-
The wounded cry my soul sings
Reaching for her once more,
My fingers weaving a line
That would turn her back to me,
To put her asleep in my arms
And do away with the lonely mornings

If this is my last poem,
Let it be as the others were
Told to her as if to a child sleeping
All those sad expressions to stars describe
Hovering waxen overlooking the fields
Of orange groves where young lovers lay
Unattracted to the abandoned cerulean ghost
Who walks by them
Entangled in the pollinated flesh
Of their unwedded matrimonies

If this is my last poem,
Let it be cast unlawfully across
The furthest lake and skip in
Many chances to where she might see
What I have done to be noticed by her
In the crowded room where we both now breathe
Across the impassible seas of continents
Let this be the final truth offered for her eyes
The truth that my lips would speak
The imperfect art of my ever cherished secret.