The Night Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The night is a stogy panther- With you in it
Further north and away,
And in it always remaining those things I cannot
Spell and thus cannot say-
Prancing, newly pronged- a lackadaisical knight
Out in his hermit-pilgrimage,
How often do you really think of me:
When you can’t see these scars, they leave you pretty
Much alone- Oh, but they haunt me,
Driving me like bumper cars-
I have been up in my lonely room, laughing with my
Dogs, while you scrimshaw on your beach,
Fully armed- Often, I think I can smell you,
The richness of your sweaty junctures, the perfume
Of your clammy cloisters:
But I should not even try to comprehend what I cannot
Spell- I have grown a beard to hide myself-
I think it best to hide you as well.