The Conquistadors I Don'T Even Pretend To Become Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bodies growing new leafs;
It almost sounds like presents being opened:
Her eyes watching,
Have no sound, the deadly predators of her
Senses,
They work in the shadows of great stealth,
They shade under the long-stretched wings of birds
Taken down,
Who themselves have become peaceful;
And I get drunk and mop up,
Wipe the sweat off my brow,
Grow pensive;
It is almost as if I am under her kissing ball when I
Do this,
When I make time after midnight underneath the slash
Pines to talk about her,
After all my metamorphosis has reverted.
Then the moonlight of a blue moon shines on the living
And the dead alike,
And they really like it;
She probably sits atop some cinderblocks while her
City laughs,
While the children stumble through the red-bricked
Mists,
Her eyes like the sunken lime-stones of this planet
Whose senses are so much like perfumes attended and worshipped
By the conquistadors I don’t even pretend to become.