Like A Dinner Of Atrocities Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You’ll have to go with me
Again underneath the
Mountain roaring fuselages
Of airplanes
To drink from the hidden springs
Halfway up the mountain;
And after we make love
You’ll have to do your
Hair again,
Only so you can go home again to
Make love to him;
While I sleep like a ghost less whishing well
Across your house-
You give him your empirical fires,
Like a dinner of atrocities
Before all the fanfare of windmills,
While saving all of your soul for me.