The Playground Of Your Swings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I am here, up in the chambers of that valentine,
Trying to come out fully formed
With shield and pectorals to match any hibiscus:
If I was to
Drift away to Lake Tahoe- If I was so beautiful
As to learn how to turn around
In the infinite space of always coming close to
You, as if classmates in the circumference of
A classroom- then this would be the only thought
To have- repeatedly lapping, each wave
Like a new messenger inspecting the walls of your
Grotto-
Hoping to lie in the traffic lights of your postmodern
Pieta,
And distinguish you as the permanence of
Irrevocable form- to languish in the semi permeable
Architectures of the angelic overpass,
To proposition the evaporation of a fingerprint
In the prehistoric daycares that echo of your
Senses only while you are on your way to school:
To live it up as a pinwheel knowing the pivotal motions
Of your routine- the somnambulating of your
Evolutionary cemetery- to be the trick of a hat
In the staccato of your heartbeats- to be the retentions
Of the forethoughts of a dream which you rise out of
Forgetting- the perfumes of the atmosphere that sustains
You in the hours you abandon while your body
No longer works, and all of the heavens turn around,
Fainting and crying for water-
To be that thimbleful of a thing that lays in the reservoirs
Of the infinity of your childhood-
A runaway who infinitely adores the lapsing inclinations
Of the playground of your swings.