That So Few Worthwhile Men Have Ever Seen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Soft and imperfect dreams starting this way
In the concentric circles of a solitary unison: I guess I miss
My dogs, and the
Secret dales of the mountains, the ways up them like the fire hydrants
And oral sex of your legs:
Alma- and this is my pledge, that wants to be your flag,
That even all the while is dying,
Like beautiful flowers in the islands of a highway-
And I know that you love your family, and to separate from their
Cherished hearts would be like an instrument trying to play
Without the efforts of its master’s lips;
But now my dragon has touched down like a heavily angry airplane,
And it is wanting some condolence;
Like a fitful child it hides it soul in the hollows of a tree before
The autumn’s holidays, and it prays for you,
While the winds get all the time heavier and more in descript;
And it seems to keep up its delusions that you will finally arrive,
Stepping down from your chariots of immortal rainbows,
And kissing its brow if you could,
Like a night spent together throughout all the naked bodies of the silver
Trees gathering together all of their
Silken promises into the gaudy pastures of the mountain’s nape
That so few worthwhile men have ever seen.