The Nocturnal Habitats Of An Insinere Moon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words, words: you pile up like colors,
Like excrement on the floor of kindergarten,
And I can still remember my dirt roads that I
Disbelieved in,
And I saw kidnappers, and I had so many fireworks,
But the truth is that I only desire the kiss from
One set of lips,
And she is away from me, even though we made love:
And she is sleeping in another man’s bed,
And she remembers her honeymoon even though they
Weren’t legally married,
And now that the day has come to this,
I can say that I don’t see the yards anymore or their colors:
It all seems like the closing curtains of Alma’s eyes
Have run over me,
And we sat together yesterday in the restaurant and I felt
Her legs like the crisscrosses of smooth rivers,
Like the foundations of romantic planets that are still too
Close to the sun to breathe upon:
And now this, like riding a unicorn or a Pegasus, something that
Is sincerely impossible and shouldn’t
Be spoken of:
All of the best leaders are dead anyways, and their cenotaphs
Whistle like construction workers:
And now this:
The feeling that her womb was sometimes warmly baking on
My bed,
And that I planted the recipe in her deltas but it never came
To fruition,
And now all that I have is my bicycle and the paths to move
Towards her treats that
Are perpetually encouraging me, like mirages in the misplaced
Deserts of roses who hold their breath through the
Nocturnal habitats of an insincere moon.