Headstrong Shores Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sharon, you don’t live here: where do you live-
While our days wake up together, breathing in teams like goldfish
Who don’t know who we are;
And they are digging up all of the deeper swing-sets because
They are afraid of lawsuits,
And, Sharon, I am really worried that I will never get to smell you again,
Underneath the pitch-fork pines imported in from England,
Or anywhere:
Sharon, the problem was that I didn’t know how to huff bouquets before
When I knew you; and now I want to hold your hips like a crutch,
Like canticle that means so very much;
And to relive you like a curse, and to fill my senses with your earthy
Purse:
Sure, you know, these bodies will go to sleep underneath the infinitely
Of welted snows; and the bodies that they breath will go;
Just as bouquets have children and fantasies;
But I want you knew again underneath my open window of senses;
I want to hold your body like something necessary for a cripple out of doors,
Because I know you are a good woman- and you will work
As a bosomy prosthesis for this man who is your Prometheus
Stranded and punished in the infinity above your broiling and headstrong
Shores.