The Well Viewed Sighs Of Beating Hearts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The foreplay of young lovers
Dances before the moaning tower.
The ghost in despair can see
The courting in the silver glade-
His eyes are the daggers which
Reveal the flesh of his focus.
He would tear down the tower
To fly free,
But his form has no power,
And all that is left for him
Is the subject of his purgatory.
When the sun is just a cut
Bleeding through the woods,
And they lie cusped in pollination,
Then in ceaseless perambulations
The specter exercises his punishment.
All is useless but his eyes,
Those that he can ever see but never touch
The living world pressing flesh
Into the intimacy of reproductive feeling
When his body lies in a restless place
Like a crocodile’s skull
The sterile cenotaph of metamorphosis,
Now the futile incarnation
Imprisoned by the unobtainable breathing,
The well viewed sighs of
Beating hearts.