With Your Brown Eyes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How it opens- bright as tennis courts
In a voiceless springtime: so privileged, and with their
Young hands on their bodies,
Watching the waves over half a hemisphere:
Sometimes it must come across them that
This is exactly what the conquistadors came across-
But, very soon,
Their young bodies are busied by the pestilence
Of their busy arcs,
And the silver airplanes cross them like werewolves,
And their art dissolved
And becomes the better part of another transparency of
The middle glass-
And it never gets better than this:
A little vermillion Christmas tree a kissing cousin
To the television,
And their little sisters sleeping side by side with the
Very science fiction of ghosts:
And when they wake up tomorrow- somehow
Losing another tooth- they will finally decide
What they’ve figured out- and you will
Slip down beside him,
Kissing his brown lips- and loving him with your brown
Eyes.