Exploding Galaxy On Shaven And Silky Legs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words come like on dates after careless movies,
Or after rum: when no-one is giving a thought to the
Crèche of waves, but are hung over from the lap dances
She brought out of the tin flask like a horn for plastic
Flowers: she dances half naked and veiled before the screen,
And then he brought out her tits like fat nickels and
We went out for ice-cream: motionless wars in her beauty,
And the watermarks over her tears like the osmosis of far
Away plant life yet proven, but studied in the carefully
Monitored habitats of her tears sans gravity: I haven’t kissed
A woman in half a decade, and that is fact, but I still crush
On romantic love, the language pressed like attended insects
Between two teenage bodies, or anybody: As out from here,
Like a long plane were thousands of rabbits are raised for dinners
In exorbitant countries, families live well polished in gaited
Communities: I might stroll up and down those buffed sidewalks,
And sleep like a privileged hobo tramped from San Francisco
In the shady architectures of their landscaping, haloed by a palmetto:
There she dances for me yet in the lackadaisical séances of mid-afternoon
Clouds, or, if not, who cares: She was French and tramped away
After two weeks, and her tongue touched the roof of the mouth
Of reptilian men who seeped through her midnighted window without
Legs: Maybe I loved her, and drank her wishing well: maybe I am
Thirsty for that taste again, but I cannot remember her name, or the
Theory of how she expanded away like an exploding galaxy on
Shaven and silky legs.