Like The Sun Burning Down Into The Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I will write something else, but it will do no good,
With the sun going down, with the final jet stream
Following it over the personifications of nature:
Today, I’ve walked around one hundred acres and fed
The standard bred horses, and I haven’t seen a soul,
But my perplexing face in the mirror, and the dogs
As they got trotting after the indefinite senses,
So now I lie here much like a fetus trying to hear its
Mother’s heart, with a precognition of what her breast
Shall taste like once I wake up in the morning; Mostly,
I am just lazy: I watch the flies wilt in the chilling weather,
When before there were raucous thousands, and there
Will be again; and I play around with a pseudo-pen like
A second-string Shakespeare, waiting to be called out
From the dugouts to taste the red clay. I bother agents
All the way overseas, sending them misquoted manuscripts;
And I pretend that in some states further east, she will still
Dress up for me, and going around as carelessly as I
Go around, tips the glass in my direction, and skinny-dipping
In the sea, alone save for the disorganization of waves,
Feels my thoughts burn into her the way they often do,
Every day, like the sun burning down into the sea.