She I Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t like doing the extra work of your soul,
Laying out tattoos for my fingers to needle on your thoughts,
The voluptuous insects secreted with your tears,
The menagerie which glows when you are in the dark,
But I am made of so many sharp things, myself,
And can not lounge for long after lunch,
When even the forests are a half naked harem the wind
Peruses like snooty women in the lingerie department,
And each mountain is a different woman rising up,
Each one I’d like to summit, to see the gold,
Which entwines with the sunrise from the top of her sport;
I’ve had this toothache since adolescence, and it has
Brought me further alone, so I’ve set up a typewriter
On a private beach and am drinking my isolation from the
Fluids and the salt, so each word goes down kind of dizzy,
As if poisoned, for I am too tired to be thirty,
And too juvenile to dance with the beautiful woman glittering
In the back, her eyes so affixed they might as well be stars;
If I were a declassified astronaut I’d chart to her like a
Celestial plume, to what her fears transcend reality,
Until just she and her silhouette waltz the room like extraordinary
Twins, slowly matching each other like sexy pugilists, until,
Engorged, only one remains, and it is she I love.