Premature Surrender Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I speak in whispers of polyglotal chants:
I just want to be beautiful in so many voices,
Like race cars ignited, like cousins in
An orgy;
And from the foothills of Colorado I start up the
Side of the page- wet sisters sigh and sway,
And maybe this is how it was suppose to be done,
Mining for the lesser silvers,
Wanting only to be halfway forgotten,
And Sharon in her nursery rhymes feels feverish for
Her cartoon loves:
In the middle of the sporty glade, she tries on shoes,
Lies back and overdoses,
A butterfly or dragonfly on her clitoris:
I suppose to was a dream she had feeling herself melt
Into the grass;
Once or twice in the nicely mowed continent. Very early
In the morning, before the windmills started
Or Chanticleer, or any more of the old voices
I could even started-
Her vases of wet clay on the riverbank I once drew on my
Desk,
But now she doesn’t care.
She bights her lip and surrenders to policemen,
Even though I am still fully loaded and with a gang stick-
Up men: bang! Bang!
She is in love,
And this is why I die like Jesus into my crypts of premature
Surrender.