Superfluous Immodesty Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Here is another one
Without a reason for you to give time to it;
A pinprick of blood arranged in an indecipherable
Letter of damaged love,
The last of the baby-teeth to dropp onto the white linen,
A pomegranate’s edible jewel the crow picks
Like a ruby eye from the pocket of a prince;
An origami swan stuck in the photosynthesis
High up in the orange trees down the second row,
Being rained on by the busy noon:
A foible for the ghost in the parking garage:
Twist up me now like spindles in the sea,
The odd breath she takes amidst the rocks and shoals,
Where the ominous roses grow out of her lips,
The virgin gardens of her pallid thighs,
And let me curl up into you like high velocity DNA-
Unrecognize yourself in the window of crying fear,
And lay down on your cantaloupe breasts,
And let my fingers list the back road of spine,
The stem of your flower, the titanic hull of opal chests,
The dusty trundling down past the weeds where the canal murks;
Where the dragon-flies string jade in the columns’ shadows,
Which marks you like a butterfly migrating and torn
Over the Senora Desert,
Like a prism in a jewel of spit in the cup of blue bell
Hidden in the high flaxen grasses of Tool Box Draw,
Up past her knobby laughing knees with no skirt,
And nothing even, except for my words in hidden parts,
Like the drool of bees, like the sleep in the corner
Of the moon’s squinting eye through the bowers of the witching glade;
All the brightness skipping up her back and lunching
There between her shoulder blades
While the aspens jingle like street performers,
The art of high altitude’s necessity, and hunger’s hallucinations,
And my lips like young birds chirping at the vase of your sultry neck,
Climbing over in little pecks, hungry for your lips
And the dimple of your chin,
Until your eyes reveal in the turning horizon of face, like perfect
Blue islands of shimmering grottos beneath the ceiling fan,
And there to speak once more the trophy inconsequentials,
Indecencies I pull up by their thirsty roots with clumps of heady earth,
And offer to you once more, standing like a gloomy artist,
Who has postmarked all his reason to the arbitrary muse,
Thoughtless and indecent, someone you can barely remember,
Knocking too quietly on your door for you to recall,
Or to get up from the average kiss you give your every man.