Let Me Hold You Dear To Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I had a better vocabulary,
I could call you in by a special whistle,
By a single word undress you with the meaning
Only you would know:
But there is only this, half hazard lines like
A crumbly paper-airline shot from the diabetic fingertips
Over a roaring forest-fire where
Everything dies;
But in the spring, flowers: more and more flowers
At your doorstep,
And bottles espoused from the sea; if you want to
Pretend to be a mermaid.
Anything you want, I swear-
I could learn to write better things for you,
Learn the names of whole gardens worth of flowers,
And grow old in our secret diseases.
We could pick up Victorian afflictions. I could run
My fingers down your chalky bodice. Heck, I can think of a million
Things to do to you more brilliant than any page ever written
From a man to his lover,
If you only give me a second to suck this paper cut,
Which reminds me of breastfeeding,
And to visit the grave of a dead poet in Bellefontaine;
I am digging her up, because she has whispered something to
Me I promised never to tell,
But I will give it to you if you close your eyes and let
Me hold you dear to me.