In The Caracoles Of Our Homes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Landscaped in the caracoles of our homes,
Like benchmarks in whatever kind of weather exists for
The day,
I find it hard to look up as stone, even when the butterfly
Lands on me;
She is all brown, and her eyes are the ideal color of
That:
She seems to swallow me, as she does every other boy:
She seems to swim around me in the waves of sunlight,
Her limbs busily cleaning,
Trying to keep busy as she asks me not to look at her;
And neither of us are perfect,
But we were built for the other, and to fit across bicycles,
And laughing as melodiously as some kind of
Hikers going up the tranquil paths towards their deaths
In one final sun shower that has matted
The wild flowers and set the yellow jackets in their
Wings
And the coral snakes on their bellies into some sort of
Religious if apocryphal frenzy.