Through Every Season Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The heavenly body in its burning valleys,
Tenebrous over the molting corpses,
Uncorking bouquets of ivory cenotaphs-
Something of the glorious, conquering scene
Like a commercial of centipedal truth:
That woman, a spider with the flagella of wildflowers
Looking down, inspecting with her unicorn,
And her Cyclops- I want her to take the meat right off
Of me, so that I might transform from the venal,
The presumptive lover-boy to a thing rich in her grasses,
In her wild barley- something snug and quilted by
Her sisterhood of pleasured roots:

There you see,
My unrequited love comes along the disinterested path,
Passes over me with the smells and ululations of
Her fracturing monument- a pinprick of infinity, of course,
Where I lay sated and quill, nothing more of society,
Altogether moral, resplendent;
A rosy anemone with a wired jaw,
And she has marked me in a blue catacomb with golden
Thread,
And I can go on forever here now that her daughter has
Crossed with her living void, with the good luck and
Flatulence of her sing
Children:
And I am anonymously hers and pass as a hidden gift to
Her along through every season.