Confrontations If Immense Sunlight Over Stalwart Gravestones Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The body of my being only knows so much,
How to write silently but with much ferality,
How to caress long distance after 4 am,
And the traffic streams like vibrant electricity
The squeaking of its joints like the yawn of a
Misplaced jungle. And I used to dream that there
Were so many places to go, even with all the
Eyes falling down upon you, but not hers;
Now I know there is only one or two in this body
And its streams; and the brain cannot tell the difference
Between reality and a television program: In
Both situations there are things to sell, and primary
Colors, and also the sea rippling like a ballroom full
Of trapped women, or a polished and buffed gym
Converted for prom, and the yet mostly virgins are
Sweeping across it hesitantly, clasping and unclasping
Hands and sometimes lips, just as furtively as bees upon
Their meadows: and I love them as we keep plot
In a movie with scenes of long families, and confrontations
Of immense sunlight over stalwart gravestones.