Into The Waiting Constellations Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It hurts:
And the cars start in the morning-
Go off
To work,
Like the last breath of a newborn
Of great grandfather is breathing,
As the morning
Surmounts
Disney World,
And the alligators pant, if they would-
And a bit of truant sunlight
Lies making love
With elegant herons and deer and
Tadpoles in a make-believe
Woods
That is sorrowful enough to be a swamp-
As you hold his light up
To your face, having already turned down
Mine-
Your brown skin like the copper of
A snake with emotions and lips
And soul big enough to have
Swallowed my heart like a candied apple,
Then turned away from the fire,
Hips and elbows already attracting
To chrysalis of every sort and kind of
Metamorphosis:
And you step into that threshold commonly
Bled from all of the traffic
Back into the waiting constellations you
And he have somehow born.