Our Venal Senses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Minor poet sing your
Canary going down into the mine.
Never mind your fatal night,
Swing and glug your venal
Wine:
The city moves; it moves for the currency
That isn’t really there,
But it moves until its tender shoulders
Are bared;
And I love you, but my quarters are a wreck;
And I am too ugly to touch myself:
Likewise, you are not here to touch me,
And I wonder for a little while
Who is touching you now.
Sometimes I think my face is beautiful underneath
The milking moon like a cow;
And the University is just across the canal.
And all the little sailors are lilting in sailor song,
And I just want to reach out and
Love you,
To caress you like a velvet tortoise his neck
Stretched out into your boudoir;
Equally, our eyes closed into the changing room
Of our venal senses;
And why is that so wrong?