Returned To Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In a bed of slopes and tongues that are
Nodding off- the wounds we can only give our selves
When we really did masturbate not to far
Off amidst the Christmas trees
While the traffic was humming and spinning around,
Like our mothers in graveyards-
And then the wars that filled up with the warmth of tourniquets;
The children blowing on their chains
Like bulbs that were still cooling; or the day that I looked up
From the sea to find myself floating in
Alma eyes- and the nights in which I sing to her,
And find her almost returned to me.