The Bitter Doorways Of An Absolute Sky Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Apple of my eye,
Who knew that an ugly man would still be writing love poems:
How can I save myself for you when
I don’t even know the instrument that has sewn your soul to its
Flesh;
And you are in a quiet room bathing, waking up,
Your daughter is a pool to catch your eyes;
And my banner is fluttering like a pitiful prayer above your head;
And the storm clouds are covering up the secret feet of
Bandoleers,
But your husband is a heavy man, isn’t he:
He knows the river from back to front;
He is a better man than me, and he will strike the dragon dead
Dead center:
He will build you a house, while I lay naked and scarred and higher up
In the skree drunken from the spirits I have stolen off of
You;
And this is my wound I am refusing to let heal;
And your eyes are like beautiful trucks that carry their merchandise
In their un dissolvable beds straight up through the ethereal mercury
And straight through the bitter doorways of an absolute sky.