From The Fertile Womb Of Such Orchards I Was Meant To Attend Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bugger who made the sky in amethyst,
The clouds as handled as uneasy gypsum:
Plato sat beneath and in the dusk understood
That there was two of each thing, but only one
Perceived in this world,
But Aristotle denied him, said there were
Nine celestial spheres leading up her
Bashful eyes lashes, but not doubled;
But hemlock was needed to be drunk, like
A sure potion to take the leap,
Socrates insisted, as he did:
Hercules didn’t care, he drank her where he
Saw her, and the sea was his court:
Unabashedly, he ran around and through her
Legs until she was thoroughly weaved,
And fell down on top of him, bosomy; but she
Didn’t care: it was just her philosophy....
Time passes on, and I almost killed myself over
You, the little bit of carbon monoxide thrill,
And dad has three pistols fully loaded in the
Bottom drawer; and I know who he voted for:
And still I need you, even when all you care to say
To me is, hello; but it won’t get me to shave,
Or to stop moving around with carnivals, smelling your
Ways along the route: I’ll find you in the particular
Light of a particular date, and lay you down
All in corduroy, and punch you with my lips
Until you apologize, and I will teach you all about my
Pre-Socratic philosophies, my thirsty swordsmanship
I use to denote you as a certain queen;
And we will do this on the ranging easement beside
The community college, while the ants go through upheavals,
Carrying away the boll weevils to their sandy indoors;
And I will carry off publications for you, in the
Homeopathic coitus of our fingertips; until we are
Burnished and freely living, with children growing like
Seedless grapes from the fertile womb of such orchards
I was meant to attend.