Myself Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Overgrown with careworn tundra,
The sky is yet friendly after holocaust the way
Mountains pretend to be beautiful in their
Apathy
Like a woman bathing forever, taking her time;
So many summits of knees and bosom
To reach a place that cannot mend, dredged by
Ancient allusion
So busied by tourists searching out new trinkets
From her quarry;
Each claiming to be the next best artist of her
Topiary’s garden;
And when she rises the end of the world in a balmy
Night as she slides into something wonderful
And saunters off like a galaxy of symmetrical
Avenues to become again against
The only man she has waiting for her in bed
Until the night shutters in a garden full of purposeful flowers she
Would not allow me to give her myself.