Underneath The Window Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What will you say about the roses some
Werewolf threw down the well:
Now that I love who will paint my scars
With her fingernails
And say her rules to my little house:
As you feed your children around the
Starving dogs of Mexico,
And my words spread like wet seed in a dusty
Bed:
Little strange fever around your eyes:
Areolas of the porticos of engraven airplanes
Circling the vultures of starving whelps-
My specific language needs so
Many things,
But you are with him, and there is a
Volcano underneath the window
Where the werewolf grins.