Seance On Plato's Swings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Walking around the side of a year,
I bite my lip hoping for more austere beauty,
The realization of her adulterous honeymoon in
The milky swath of all that pain:
While my dogs and I go leaping monstrous through
The defeated shadows,
Knowing we have won the day, and our mother
Will again soon be ours,
I can only think of you lathered in such pantheism’s
Hydra-powers:
You are that kind my filthy climbs would reach,
If I could take up séance on Plato’s swings,
And tell you that if you know anything of simple
Philosophy, then that is what you are:
What I lust over, disembodied from the stock market,
From the gun shows, or the precious metals:
More powerful and precious than a leaping airplane:
You who have proven to me that I am just the shadow
On the marble wall of your Ultimate Form,
Slinking in your
Perfect bathhouse, brazen and crass: looking at the bloated cadavers
Of an unrealized Easter: There is you- whose Christian name
Will remained curtained, and then there are the females,
The pale shadows who walk beneath your body,
The minnows in the swaying tree house of spit and flume,
Reflected off of you like pale shimmers in the guts of a school
Bus lighting from you the entire purpose of bosomy
Knowledge my only thought is to succulently attend.