The Senses Of This Class Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Clichés of cadavers laying opal bricks
On the mean streets,
What heirlooms reside in your bloody flesh:
When you eyes and lights are gone,
The bowls they drink to
Sate the king of a river forest
Where we get all of our Christmas trees
After the cars are done purring,
And the university is just a transient penumbra
Where you could never have lived
Except for in the old wives tales where the bicycles
Parade,
Somnolent, like tight rope walkers on the streets:
And she has your eyes,
And I think that you should both sleep together
In a sorority’s coffin,
Like a constellation nailed in a horse birthed
From an acorn;
But for now bight your lip,
And kiss his tongue, but never forget of
The love I have told to you once there is nothing left
To cover the sky,
Who like a silent tiger leaps from the limbs,
Never once harming the bells which would open
Your eyes,
And would awaken you from your boyfriend’s
Sleep in time to make it to the senses of
This class.