Silent Orange Dreams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My body numbs by opulent venom,
Kissed by the lips of still bleeding venison:
And the champions have taken to the sky:
They have taken your hand, Alma:
They are kissing and blessing you and turning giant
Airplanes around like bottles in a kissing game:
Atop the sky, atop the town:
It is like the whispering fantasy of spoiled school kids
Who invite invisible lovers into their own rooms:
It is like all of the hours I am forced to spend with you
When either you or I am not home:
And this is a butterfly, a god, or your name lighted
A spotlight atop the favorite green colors of the stage of
This terraplane; and this is my nascent desire
Calling from high atop the coned trams of a conifer,
Like a mother who doesn’t move,
But as if through ripples in a wishing well,
Of silent orange dreams that never sleep,
Calls you home.