Like A Story Book Of Gasoline Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hushed from the toppled gates of apples:
Or the farewells of the firemen’s applause, where the coliseums
Of cluttered universities
Become rain stormed: where we remember the footsteps
That no longer echo for anyone
Of our situations- surrounded by the night, all of the copper axes
Tormented into woods,
With scuppernongs everywhere, but evil: and the brown flesh
That is hers pullulating.
As we let her in and make love; but then she disappears for days:
She doesn’t read of us, how we skip school and
Make applauses with her with liquors and bachelorhoods;
But she doesn’t exactly leave:
Like a butterfly who comes back for more:
To rob the store of the naked flower on the lonely mountain:
To start a fire there no bigger than a match which burns
As if the only soul in the woods:
Worshipped by every animal fortunate enough to live there,
Gathering to tell stories in congregations of svelte and horns-
They love her without knowing a word,
Even as she steals from them all that her little body could:
Like a story book of gasoline: this is how her love burns.