The Nocturnal Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Plagiarism in your hands is not love—
It is a simulacrum underneath the French mountains
That will never metamorphose
Fooled by a cat or a fox that you are coming home,
And slipped inebriate with the daisies underneath the
Windowsill—
Drawing the lines it knows how to draw:
As you sway like a wave escaped from the sea—
Sauntering atop the bricks in a buxomly censure with
You pretty boy lieutenant made of bayonets—
He entertains you with the drills,
As the girls leap in the sky—flying in airplanes of
Leaping candles—and the nocturnal things melt with
My wishes into the earth.