Busied In Your Lost Joys Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Word is the jewel in the throat of
The prism—
Lips are the arms of the sun and
There you are
Growing as distant as a child running
Away,
Diminishing from the school yard.
I can see that you do not want your
Beauty to overstay its
Welcome,
So I have become all of my impotent
Weapons—
And when I become lost from the
Hunting of you,
I can pretend to understand myself in
The wounds of your absence—
Beautiful attire,
Brown skin a frock of gold—mestizo,
Unrequited,
See me burying my face into the
Casks of rum another night—
Waiting for the heavens to bloom with
Fuses—
To spin in concentric occultisms
That make themselves busied in your lost joys.