Your Hungry Snows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The family sleeps in gloom, and I am just waking up:
And the world hasn’t recognized me, just as I haven’t yet learned
The gloom of all of these flowers:
I am absolutely imperfect and beautiful, and I am going down on
You in a wishing well,
Because I Haven’t yet given up on you:
My whole life is a musical, and I cherish on swings in the midnight,
Or in crepuscule,
And I don’t even care that I don’t even know the law:
Or that all that I can see you in is in black and white,
Or that you are only my sick muse
And turned down the part of Frankenstein, and this is just
A train ride of a little girl in a cherished hurricane;
Or that I cannot drive a truck right now, Sharon, or that I haven’t
Chased a girl on into Mexico, as if I weren’t a butterfly
Impossibly changing, or drinking your spirits,
Because you are my unicorn: Sharon: you are my America,
And I cannot help but to keep waking up for you and doing what
I do for you,
Sharing my spirits with the toothless hobos underneath the overpass:
And I have new dreams that aren’t even right,
Because I have stolen new bicycles underneath the censers of
Mars and you aren’t even mine;
And again, tonight, tonight: you aren’t even mine, tonight,
But to the throat of a funny werewolf you go, like a rose that has no
Home but to the strange placed you give, placed in the theaters
Of your hungry snows.