Paper Snowflakes And Ashy Cherries Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Turn my sugar into alcohol.
Rippling on the stamens of a dream,
I watch the underbellies of your spaceships
Leaping,
Lucky-legged,
Green eyed; but venal things:
Each word a tomb I raid for you-
I become so many John Does, lost in the spilt
Forest of your bitten tongues;
I get high for you, and steal things for crèches
And mobiles,
Kicking out the yard lights of popular romance
Authors:
I’ve been to the south of France chasing a guitar
On Christmas, I have;
And I’ve sold tannenbaums and strapped them to
The roofs of family cars;
And I am an honorary Catholic-
I want to be a saint for you; I want you to
Add one more hyphen to your name,
I want to slip down the scree for you,
And rest in your verdant bosom when the boss and
You husband is away and you have nothing to lose;
And I am dying; and I want to die into you,
While the sea is spitting like a venomous snake
Who coils with me up your naked roots,
Pale disavowing, wishing to whisper our ripened knowledge
To you,
While your husband is away cutting down mountains,
And you are turning sideways, curious for awhile
Rippling as if in a dream
Not quite certain of the portent moving in like a flood
Of dreamless things coughing paper snowflakes and ashy
Cherries up to the neck of your doorstep
Until you smile, askance, understanding that
None of it is for real.