In The Bays Of Your Horses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

News to the plagiarisms:
The pinwheels are still spinning around both hemisphere's
Of your favorite daughter's lips—
Yet now she is up in Ocala, with her favorite father
And her favorite horses—
Too young to know how he undressed each other—and so
The moon enlarges like a dying organ
Before your birthday—
And the few months we spent together at the fruit market
Dying,
As I pretend that the fireballs fall down from the sky—
And I remember holding you and kissing your lips
Around the playground of the albino alligator—
Not knowing of our séances, though
He was in a séance himself—
And you loved him, bush-wacked beneath the apple orchards,
Sometimes collecting your skin like an all-too-aware snake,
And crawling back to,
Dressing in your reptilian apiary, while I had a house for you
And all of the gold you could carry—
It wasn't enough—a thousand songs were not enough—
Neither would be just as many oceans—
The drunken nights carrying your echoes to me,
As the knights that would have had you drown in the bays of your
Horses.