The Winds Blew Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She, muse, tried so hard in the diligence of
Heterosexuality:
The makeups she put on when she didn’t really have to.
Girls name
Sharon are always beautiful, under the ceiling fans
Of the emergency room,
Their families blown to the four corners of the bedroom
Like crippled lovers;
And the sun flared up like a green science-fiction,
And she brought her lover to her like an heirloom of a broach;
While I passed the liquor around belly deep in
Waves,
The traffic hurrying over head, and the sky masturbating;
But I was alone, and she was thoroughly affixed to the cantinas
Of the roam,
And the university spilled over and gave her a greater séance to
Choose from.
I could have had any of my aunts, or the ladies who love
Arbitrarily in the gardens of mailboxes after crepuscule,
But I wanted the sweet little dark haired girl
With pinched nerves and thigh-high tan lines; but she was always
Casting up river,
Spilling her roe into the pollinations of evergreens;
And she found her man all skinny and tight roping the Appalachian’s
Skree,
And loved him there forever as I wished her forever to love me;
And the moon made love in the snow
Across the gentle slopes where the horses whispered
And the winds blew.