In Pools Of Bright Shade Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The night is a night of brother less panthers:
Those beasts who don’t wear any shoes, and never get hurt:
They are hunting tonight and breathing out from the open
Windows of
Virgins who haven’t yet traveled up state to die in the cataracts of
Narcoleptic incest of fraternities:
And I can’t really imagine that bartenders are reading me anymore,
Or that the azure lights are still undressing behind the eyes and
Gullets of her church,
Because here you are, Alma: Here is where you will always be
Remembered
And loved by the vagabond foundlings: those who rest without any
Cars,
Whose songs are swallowed by the glutinous trains:
That I have run away all the way to Michigan, and I tried out for
Awhile in California- I have almost mined for silver in Colorado;
And I have been up her frost bitten neck to admire the
Grandeurs of Vampires and down again into her peaceful grottos
Where the alligators are smiling;
And I love you, Alma- and I have nothing in my refrigerator,
But your brown body is as warm as an incubator that could raise
Entire households of chickens on the north pole;
And your eyes are a holiday, your lips a portico to foyers of your
Soul where I stand waiting to dance with you while the storm clouds
Winnie and the waves roll in so grandly never even figuring that
They cannot hold a candle to the toy like caesuras or bodies
Have made lying together in pools of bright shade.