Riding Through The Gardens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In rainstorms we made love
Even as we began to die- outside of the high schools
Where the angels
And the airplanes began to cry:
And I suppose you cannot even picture me
Now but I am still right here,
Singing out through the
Habitual windows,
Trying to dry my wounds in the fireworks of the
Sunshine:
As all of this is your Miami
Licking its wounds, as the beaches glisten,
As the sunlight swoons:
In rainstorms we made love, but it is not alright
Now- this is how I’ve been
Spilling out of my shell,
While the stained glass glisten in the beaches of
Phoenix,
In the dreams of the desert that never has to awaken,
And I feel myself
Riding through the gardens with bicycles held up
The heavens, but only because they are supposed
To be the most beautiful thing held
Over above the earth, even though they have sunken-
And after midnight,
All of the beautiful girls, metamorphosed from
Their roses- have stolen all that they are worth.