The Remains Of Your Stolen Ribs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You have gone home and crepuscule forebodes and wreathes
The yards,
And I have forgotten how the spelling is of anything good:
And maybe it is because I have a hard time feeling the remains of
Your stolen ribs,
Even though you crossed me today, Alma, and in our out of work
Truancies we made love,
Like tasting the hidden bottle of angels, so that all of the cars had
To park
And movies were watched, as unicorns drank deeply the eyes
Of other unicorns,
While their beautiful fairytales were so high up with nose bleeds
In their aerie castles;
And you told me that you loved elephants: I suppose I said that
I would never forget,
And we swung down across each other, my pale loins in your
Brown,
And never was my mouthless hunger more satisfied than when we
Did all of those things today, you swore that we shouldn’t have done.