The Brightest Lights Of Your Most Beautiful Of Bedrooms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bodies who burn beneath the clouds:
And bodies who swear that they were never bodies;
And bodies:
Bodies in Colorado, and bodies right here: The night turns out
To be a gypsy, spying with all of her curses, and yet so beautiful:
While Alma has promised to be right here come sunrise of
Tomorrow,
And something more beautiful I could never ask for,
While the airplanes leap straight over holidays,
And all of the tourists graze and glaze like housewives sweating
Right out like marmalade on white bread:
Alma, I am think of you; and Alma, I am dreaming of you:
A pieta in your sweet grotto,
With Michael and Heidi succulent on either of your sweet tits,
Like the deepest virgin in her deepest grottos,
And you told me you wanted a boob-job, even though I told you
That my littlest sister had already had one,
And she was none the more prettier for it.
And now I am singing, Alma, and now I am swaying from limb to
Limb,
While all the tourists get their way to Canterbury,
And I whisper in your sweet brown ear: I whisper to you,
As if into the boudoir of a seashell that you are always and still
The most beautiful and sweetest thing that I have ever wanted so
Far,
And until always; Alma, while the lighthouses sashay for
Sailors,
Alma, while the apples bloom, and the fish come up to blossom
Underneath the brightest lights of your most beautiful
Of bedrooms.