The Ivy Of A More Inner Dove Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Drowning its equinox of horses-
The sea brushes evangelically with cinder-locks;
It genuflects, propositioning queens
Of its shoreline:
All these girls all the same all the time;
The waves bring the bouquets to the docks;
And she is in love with her other men,
Far ashore in the orange groves like white knights
On steeds of metamorphosis:
She never goes to the light house again to see his
Hoary propositions:
She remains stalwart farther inland dressed up
Behind green copper cannons,
Kissing the remains of a prettier kind, but
Their hotel room is empty:
She beds missionary in another household:
His words are replete with endless time, but her neck
Is enfolded by the ivy of a more inner dove.