That He Took And Never Gave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pleasance reposes on the push handle of the star channels.
And the little things that fail are just cut off in the rocks
Of unsure protuberances,
And they sleep forever without any dreams of princesses;
And when you are close, or when you are far,
The bodies move so rapidly, like the hyperboles of insects
Masticating into the garden,
Like rabbits really jacking off until all of the traffic finally parks,
And the magic tricks turn into girls with tan lines,
And all the men lie down and have their satin opal fix,
And the hats come off and the nooses tighten,
And then the trees remember the witchcraft of their early lives,
As the ponies saddle and the guns heartbeat into their buck hide
Holsters,
And I can almost here my first muse laugh, heavily bossomed
Beside the high cathedrals of the catholic church which gathers
All the ghosts of tourists across the street from the University
Where so many of us young fools attended almost
Categorically,
Even though Beowulf was dead and making a birthday cake for
The dragon after he had eaten the village where everything I once
Had loved had before fell asleep,
While Alma stroked her hair a thousand times and glittered her face
For the man who would come to taste her life with every beefy
Puff that he took and never gave.