Song Of Cypress And Spikenard Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You wronged me in a song
Of cypress and spikenard,

In the somnambulating fog of humming students
And self-medicated professors.

Always flirtatious, you made me wait outside your
Dorm, as I drank in the hazy morning.

Couldn’t you realize the processes of your education,
What you were going through,

When we lived together, and ever day was warm and
Torrential, and we held hands in the zoetrope’s carousels.

Now the spilt cherry molts on the seat of the swing,
A caterpillar never actualized, burned missing.

The failed metamorphosis in the process of those years,
You got what you wanted,

As the lips of the clock blow away molted fears,
And Hindus chant and pray on the green lawn where we passed.