The Absolute Delusions Of Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Here, I want to fall in love,
Right in the passions of the singing garden,
Rich with insects and serpents,
The very few reasons meandering through the
Grass and up to her display,
That the world was first found and then blazed in the
Fullness of an immaculate kiln,
Found sport with werewolves and the fording knights
Who were too brave and overzealous and aloud
Their feral enemies to meet them halfway,
Which was their failure,
Like most languages who enter into their species
After bedtime and a few measly dinners of grubs
Until the hardnosed call girls of vampires beat them to
The bleachers,
And called up a brutal symphony which snapped every neck
In the hillside of windmills, as if stringing up horse thieves
Before a picnic of wildflowers,
And killed at the absolute delusions of love I’d been at having.