So Vert Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If the dead bloom, they bloom just for you under your
Peeks of tourism;
And I have been doing nothing; and I am not warm, and I am
Growing tired like a pioneer given up between his passes;
And I remember you,
And as that you must sustain yourself of my flesh:
Because I am not beautiful enough to pass beyond into the
Promised land of your sanctity:
That the wolves are un collared and set loose and they know the
Same names as the places where my names know and repeat,
In the latest hour before my parents are returning home
To their little place beside the canal
To interrupt my profession; and I am thoroughly enamored,
And yet I have almost saved enough to buy a beautiful house for you:
And your daughter is just as beautiful and as well kept as you:
And I want to stand out perfectly in your easements and
In your storms rumors sell perfect things for you;
And I am failing again tonight for you: and my night is just a plagiarism
For you,
And now I can see the lights of another sad return: and the day is over,
And the doors are slammed and people are home and the lights
Are emptied because you are not home;
And your eyes are absolutely perfect underneath the very same moon
That pulls my strings so very far away from me.