Latest Season Of Your Paramour Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The clock is ticking on the wall
no one can hear the single words
that are falling outside
your open window
snow covers up for murder,
the transgressions of
door to door lovers
who can not know the name
of this conscious
golden manacles around your
wrists,
you lay in the downy bed
and wait for him
the latest season of
your paramour
the armored peacock
of several colors
the precisions of nature
fawning in the bedroom's
albino cage;
outside the sun will be
blinding himself
in the snow's basin,
though inside you continue
unblinking,
your otherwise rosy lips
chapped and licked
by the blizzard leaping
in the open window
the latest season of
your paramour.