Pure, Pure Sunlight Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Her eyes would not give me a red cherry,
A chance to smell her along the languid body of rises,
Hiking bone-deep against the plates her body makes,
Coming up, writhing with the sweat and stain
Of getting things done on the 3rd plane this
Planet is known for,

Where her body lies perfectly nude,
Dripping the juice of the pomegranate,
Writhing, a holiday for serpents to curl about,
To surf, and to call those bright eyes a new poem
Cast out of Eden,
To saddle on until the buck of the act gets it:

Homer’s voyage

Until she calls your name for the neighbors to hear,
She sinks your battle-ship,
And all your hopes collide into her, torpedoes,
Commanded from the thighs which killed the Neanderthals
Where your class finishes in the overgrown fields
You learn something new, hidden,
She slips our childhood into a rabbit hole
We go down with Alice, in the forgotten wonder
Of her auburn kindergarten dressed up for Easter Sunday,

And her hair lays in the light without shadow, pane,
She plays on a field of pure, pure sunlight.