So Sublime As To Be Your Own Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These trees are hooks for your belongings,
And right about now my breath smells like a fire
Engine:
Somewhere close to coffins, that ants proceed;
They are unfathomable, all these mighty kingdoms
Abstracted from Dorothy’s:
Not a single insect who has ever lived has ever
Known your name, or your mothers,
Or has wished to fall down on his crypt orchid
Knees and smell the better part of you,
Or had to have given you orchids for a saltwater
Kiss,
Or been put through minimum wage, or fed to lions;
And maybe this is bliss:
Having had a chance to look into your eyes
And seen the seven wonders, to have ridden once or
Twice in your car an to have sucked the air-conditioning together,
Mutually,
To have your wet lips once or twice on my neck,
To have you to say my name and heard my wishes,
To have seen you walking away upon the concrete pressed
By bicycles and Old English,
And, subsequently, to have been fed to lions:
The humane and tame abstracts who might have seen you
Gamely, but licking their chops, have never even thought to
Guess upon a name so sublime as to be your own.