Kissing, Crimson Shore Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cream corn of foxes underneath the busy airplanes:
This wasn't supposed to be how it would
Develop—
Unicorns and mermaids left to their own devices:
I was supposed to sing to her in the middle of
The busy avenues of the pretty wedding—
But now it is too late—
And I am still right here—
Maybe it was because she had entered a fever from
Our love making—our very busied love making—
Like the sound a frog makes as he sings:
Calling to her in the rain to come home—
To come back again one last time to sit on her shoulders
As the car drowns with all of the pretty windows
Shut to the last door—
Then won't she kiss me—kiss me, like a Ferris Wheel
Bowing to the shore—while tomorrow—tomorrow—
Won't there be more and more—
Kissing, crimson avenues bowing to the kissing,
Crimson shore.