Infinitely Lost Platoon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Here: the scars are awkward:
They prevent romance, but not love;
They prevent a meaningful conclusion to
Those erection which go up like cerulean tents
In the mist forest of Applachia,
Set up by little boys and their scout masters
In her tangling crooks and sways: they don’t
Know how to speak with her,
But cannot prevent the use of different meanings
For the word blue; The scars the obscurity of
Dense foliage, the aphrodisiac bloom, dark and
Meaningful, which always conclude in suicide:
Suicide of lip and tongue folded in a wilted cleft
Of language: So I love her, and slept thirty
Miles south of where she made love in isometric
Weddings, kissing the boys and suitors all as like
As a compatible species in a zoo:
Those azure tangles which lace down into the dreary
Canals where the extinct languages sink,
And the fiber-glass coffins lay exposed and wealthily
Holy standing up along the bank: where
Hands unclasp like the shed wings of a demetamorphosing
Butterfly, like a amputee crossing the floor or the highway,
Calling out in the sad numbers of an infinitely lost platoon.....