Brown And Agile Child Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There is nothing more than this,
To say that it is enough and now to lie down
In my agile drowning,
While newer birthdays come for the paradoxical
Old,
And it takes something more than just being liberal,
When her eyes are so deeply auburn they hurt,
And in all her pictures with her lost boys
Who she pretends are just her friends,
She is always showing a bit of tongue, as if in quiet
Sexy challenge,
And it is the organ best used for verbs and jests,
But not for the quieter things
Which come out and slip through the suburban
Trees after midnight, slip into the easy lakes and
Concrete streams which really are just yoked curbs;
And I could say now that I would love her,
If the seasons fell over her, and her eyes swung like
Leafy estuaries Thoreau would have liked to move
Into,
And the clock is silent, and the crocodile approaches
Silently too, and that is why there are so many things
Who are dangerous,
And her eyes most of all, even after we have packed up,
And the sail is over where the moon is quietly skimming
The neighborhood’s canopy—Her eyes will look over
Us silently, supposing,
And there will be a greater intake in which we will find
Our young reticence being filled and looked upon
By someone so beautiful that she is deadly to be alive with,
And there is nothing we could say that would challenge
Her to move closer to us,
To say anything more with the rich, deadly eyes,
Who have already won for her everything we cherish or
Would have taken upon us those selfish gifts to steal.