The Littlest Of Kisses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In Faberge bodies spring to me out of quinceaneras’
Bonfires who’ve had at talking a lit to hotdogs;
As if from across the great surceases of juvenile gazes,
And those canyons where all the best bouquets
Evolve,
And the wild rivers flow: down into the stoop of cinder blocks
And into the alcohol of missive aloe,
Where the premature faeries spume broiling in lies over the
Unlucky and harangued toads:
Where too the dogs have ganged up in the rabbits and taken
Away the last of his luck in the rock garden amidst all of the
Echinopsis,
Like corsages in the cacti: as the borders of rainstorms
Spill over, pillaging the forts, and turning the sky as green
As the memory of the languishing valleys where in your first
Home nested,
Alma: and all of the snakes and the fables of their lessons who
Waited for you there,
To rise surefooted and start out again through the schoolless
Day, I don’t know: but I pine for you as if across a table burning its
Alcohol, asking for you to give me at least the littlest of kisses
When the valleys come again in the morning.