The Incandescent Brushstrokes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’m supposed to be going
Back to work
But I haven’t been with you
For three weeks,
And now with the sun going down
And all of this liquor
The semiprecious formulas are
Losing steam
As the ready traffic is swimming by
Again,
And all I’ve managed to do is to
Become lost
Into these woods that always
Bare the heartfelt architectures of your
Elusive name,
Peeling away like misfits up into the sky,
In columns of disbelieving opulence
That smolder for awhile
In the incandescent brushstrokes of a holiday
Never sanctioned for my eyes.