The Weeks Of The Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Made of clairvoyant tattoos in the bitter-hearted forest,
As this way all of the well transvested knight run,
Pooling their numbers,
Blue and purple hearted—as the waves foam and fumble,
Until the last of them is wounded and heartbroken upon the steps
Of the forest,
One time lover of the sea—He goes down into her, tip-toeing:
And she beckons him, open throated,
Throwing her bosoms at his chest,
Never thinking of the times we had together—as the sun burns
His acolytes through the surf, wishing but once that he had a single one
Of her priorities—as she sings to them, wishing to become surer
Towards her—so they swim, salty-throated—echoing men from their
Abandoned ships—and she catches them and knots them
And gives them all of the weeks of the sea to amend their love
For her—smiling as she does all the time at me.