The Combustive Valentine Along In The Gutter Of The Busy Curb Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Crown me in scars, in rainstorms,
The abusive clichés,
Give me my rounds, my sweet bruises,
My misspellings,
My pugilistic kisses- sweeten the
Pounds,
Drive around in your cars for an hour
Of sacrifices,
Look at me broken down beneath the
Pillars of your high highway;
I tend to lie back this way in the broken
Glass of saints, the distraught paint,
The gardens of unending cemeteries:
Make love to him, and breathe the meanings
You give to yourselves along the wires;
Swing the rusted hinges, the beautiful compressions,
An entire salty wildlife in a certain geological
Position burning the body’s gravity;
It doesn’t matter how you tap out, the telegraphs
Of your bones, the censers of spinal cords
Like jubilations going on a smoky swing set up and
Down-
I want such immortal wreckage left out like
Soggy breadcrumbs along the slope of Calvary;
And if the ravenous anonymity should break through the clouds like
A new wound and find me,
I will like a perfect invalid await your venomous manna
To fly to my bones, your heavenly forgetfulness to
Immolate me,
The discarded cremation, the combustive valentine along
In the gutter of the busy curb.