The Happenstance Of This Touch Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Rollercoasters of your shoulders and airplanes,
But anywhere, I am still here,
And it is almost time to go to sleep,
With the world slipping just over the parapets,
Pretending to be the gods of a different world,
And I’ve been thinking of you—you,
And, yes, you—one or two times—
And it doesn’t even matter that you know whom
You are anymore—
The summer is falling all over itself, with glowing
Spokes and splinters—
And I want to drink again, but my wife is very wise
And she is watching—even though she doesn’t believe
In god,
These words still spill out in masturbations,
Like the subtle scars upon my neck, and
The another summer will be another summer—
And then the shoulders of airplanes and angels will
Really happen—
Far above like fireworks, to this world laid out beneath
Them—from a world too far away to be kindled
To the happenstance of this touch.