The Immense Beds Of Her Night Poem by Robert Rorabeck

As a tomb of white innocents,
Sunlight washing it like a car—making nude the
Pale baby’s breath sprinkled there
Beneath the bulbous pornography of
Roses—They linger for a few dollars
And then the sun eats them,
As it eats us,
Kissing us around the ears, forked-tongued
As if we were objects in its lustful shops:
Lion tamer making the grass grow,
As the moon pulls up the waves,
Wanting something to cover herself
For a little warmth in the immense beds of
Her night