The Wounded Lovers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I think about coming towards you, like a shadow
Back pedaling in the sunlight,
Going by a dog who cannot stand to see me weeping—
With the light house arisen on the hill,
And the orchards still smoking—
Pollinations of my artwork, like night blooming jasmine
For the cadaver: you go home to your husband,
Through the secret keyhole of a waterfall—
Airplanes fly in the sky until it is thoroughly taken over
By them—Thinking they are angels,
But they are not angels—and mermaids fall asleep in
The canal, hearts lost as if barefoot maidens in
Trailer parks—and in the throats of clams at the bottom
OF the ocean where pearls should be—
Only emptiness—even if there was sunshine, there
Would only be emptiness—
As the bodies of the wounded lovers move as their
Work proceeds.