The Roar Of Engines Along The Edges Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Let me take you to the places on the side,
The green pastures and ivied slopes that drip
With anticipation, waiting for us to couple in
The writhing jade undergrowth,
A pastoral that Hardy once thought of, only
He couldn’t understand the metal streaming of breathless
Cars shooting like modern insanity upon their
Slick stoned rivers.

Let us touch our wetness’s to each other’s parts,
And take turns pollinating our mouths like busy insects
Dabbing upon the pistils of divine floral, budding mammalian,
With bits of each others’ kisses smeared along the precipitous rim,
The way our ancestors did it disrobed and flaunting
Newly aroused peaks filling in cavernous bloods
Wishing to geyser, flow, and pool
Into the other and then to evaporate to the beat of drums on a crackling
Yellow savannah whose only boarders are the wildfires whose
Flames stampede….

Watched by the animals whose lives flash in
Hungry succession, who only have time to copulate
Once or twice before they die and are utterly forgotten….

Let their blind fears tremble upon us, so that our
Hands may learn the feral touch of instinctual hunger,
And our eyes come to know only the motions swinging on their visions,
And to understand by the growth of hungry irises upon our lights,
How we wish to move upon the other, in steaming cascades,
Which cause the evaporation of dews, and a drying of the
Forest in which we linger in mist draped upon one another,
So banks of fog move like velvet curtains upon the gladed boudoir
And drown out the now unfamiliar noises of cities
And streets, smothering the forest, silencing all the minute
Cicadas shedding, crickets chirping, snakes slithering, cow’s chewing….

So there is no longer a sound on the forest floor, nor
The roar of engines along the edges, only the drumming of our
Hearts which thump the sound of our boarders disappearing.