Under Another Silly Moon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Your body in surplice in candlelight
Walking somnambulant deep into the dreary hours
Of a department store;
I see you- I bite my wrist: my eyes flicker like
Aroused fires who’ve been fed that very stuff;
And the English isn’t good, just golden loin pirates;
But you are the stuff,
While the oxygen dies again like seraphim way up
Into the hungry mouths of the ceiling fans:
There you are entrained to the gorgeousness to which
You are heir:
You are a nursery in your crenulated underwear;
And I want to hear you with my tongue; I want to plant
You just right here; and caracole that pearl which wimples
The head of your children as they come out like
Propitious porcelain dolls at first cerulean until they
Start to weep;
And then your life comes to me like a sickly sweet movie in
The dark;
And maybe the butterflies will make love to the moths
Entering the forest of crepuscule,
As you mouth will open moist gardens of rumors to my
Carport of a mouth; and the day wont have any reason to last
Any longer, and spill us out in a psychosomatic cornucopia
Together where the manikins gather,
The lovely ladies bathing forever just like housewives
Wanting for nothing, seeming to watch our brushfires
Once again under another silly moon.