The Lips Of My Bed Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Resolutions of fairytale metamorphosis
Happening like the orgasms of a thimbleful of dreams:
If Alma doesn’t love me,
She has never loved; and I work all day long for her:
I work seven days a week:
The forest streams like rivers,
As the traffics brush her cheek: and the animals run through
Her wilderness:
She collects her youngest child to her chest,
And the lips of a love that no longer comes to her,
Suckles at her breast,
As she counts the candle tips of her tears- as she returns home
From her daylong work:
The porridges of her loneliness are either too hot,
Or too cold,
But they continue to lie down, like fish out of stream sleeping
In her bed; as I famish for her,
Like a thousand thoughts of windmills dripping from
The lips of my bed.