In The Cushions Of My Most Amiable Of Skies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I took a lover to the mouth of the river:
You could see down to the bottom of its speckled liver;
And she hung upon me like a bulb
Of rosy weekdays; but I still walked back home through
The slender topiaries of this basilisk forest,
Searching for your eyes that defeated all of the actresses:
I seemed to concur you well up from the stage of
My premature blindness;
And you did come caressing like the queen of my bodies
Slave;
And now I suppose I must say something beautiful
Concerning the stones of my mother’s rock garden,
But I never really knew them nor cared how carelessly you
Misconstrued them:
Now it seems as if I am just taking my car down in the
Tunnels in between Arkansas and Missouri; and now you
Are rising up like a paper dove who is burning;
And your eyes also have your daughter’s eyes; and they rise
Together through the friendly skies,
Serving in them to anyone they like; and the truancies of
Never ending boys salute you from the never ending rooftops
In the cushions of my most amiable of skies.