In The Eves Of His Quieted Sort Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I drink more liquor like a lucky seahorse drinks of its
Velveteen sea;
And perhaps I love you, if this is the worth of my soul,
And I am returning to myself in the bodies of
This great depression of soft blue oceans, and all of these
Wrong words:
And I wanted so long ago to step through the nigh toward
You with the conviction of really penitent heroes,
But to not tell any lies, that wasn’t the boy you were looking for
Anyways:
So you make love and mouth off, and who knows what you
Do to your modern day guy:
This is just my own next day failure anyways: This is the last
Poem towards this early morning solitude;
This is the banshee taking it easy and pretending she is just
A torn kite, just a little shrivel of rag having a good time
Strip teasing the sun:
This poem isn’t about Erin, or what she never did to me, you
Understand: Nothing I have ever done for her was ever about her,
While the boys pile up underneath her and have a good time
Sucking the lichen of her stalagmites; and yes tonight I am
That quiet sort of god who rests in the eves of his quieted sort
Of epiphany and waits doing the best that he can
Saying all of these ungodly things just trying to conceive
Or disprove her love and her love making for her sort of any other man.