Green Banks Of Vermillion Snow Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now it has to be so awful,
Drinking my five dollar wine after all of the fireworks
And birthday cards;
After the night has shown itself to the door,
So only the words come: you would think so softy
As to occupy with little girls in their bedrooms in soft
Shoulders
There; but not there, for just as suddenly the serpent uncoils
By the new energies of moonlight,
Striking like liquor from the curious basins of its amusement
Rides:
It strikes right out and marks her, playing in her band
While she was sleeping with another man
Up in her tree forts or her dorm rooms:
As the wine or liquor drips down like tears,
Like sweat in a garden and in the adulterous trees,
While her son is yet to live and then yet to go away:
And in tomorrow, promising, I climb up the facades of mountains
Just to swear to her,
My fingers grasping arrow heads and pottery: my dogs licking
Their wounds stories below:
And she awakens tomorrow, her eyes undressing a world of its
Green banks of vermilion snow.