The Lady Of The Lake? Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tongue who languishes for the chalice of
Its voyage—
The questing beasts who sounds so savage,
And speaks of its lust
While driving to the movie theatres,
But grows quiet upon returning to
Its houses—
And into its kitchens without any poisons
Of snakes,
It practices its ventriloquisms—
And the lady of the lake?
She waits or she slumbers in a pool made
Entirely out glass meant to reflect
The cartographed jealously of
The stars
Except that they are so far away
That their beauty continues
To burn without any of its mirrored passions.