The Great Body Of Excuses For This Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Catches of knights up in their trees:
They too like bouquets, like fires who only burn through
The lunchtime:
While when it is our time, you like it when I pull your hair:
And the rabbits bare themselves for the luck of
The dog tracks,
And the men stationed there just grow skinnier with more
Tattoos:
And then you go to your home at night, Alma, filled with the
Excuses that you will never let me use,
While airplanes seem to stretch their stewardesses and use up
All of their love:
They return their princesses over the oceans, as the arks return
Their doves,
Underneath the suppositions of rain clouds where we have hidden
So many things,
While the neighborhood cats bask in the penumbras underneath
The trellises, nibbling on the thorny throats of roses
Who have grown up from the great body of excuses for this love.