The Sunrise's Necromancy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cry sometime for the shy turtledove
Hiding in his shell,
And for me, if you still believe I am real.
For I have gone beyond this ancient town-
I have followed the disenchanted cataracts,
And the stumbling tears,
For under this whipping flag is no place for
Wounded men to live and hunger,
As I have seen you kissing him without
Regret beside the shoreline of tattered lore:
It was then I noticed your eyes were the sunrise,
Pulled up in the necromancy of his bare arms,
And the millenary reservoirs of lips
Muting the tide and rising it in the exaltations
Of pollinated limbs.
This was all I could behold, and I have never
Seen anything so terrifying, that you
Had known him again and again,
The way the tide knows the compromising shore,
And wishes for it as clay wishes for its sculptor;
You bent into him like a twist of wood,
Who has lived passionately for its moment of life,
The flotsam, when discovered, metamorphosed
In his hands, and become a piece of breathing property;
It was then I ran, shrinking from the dawn you made,
And the sound flooding with the color,
Believe that my heart would melt like glass in a kiln,
To see you at it again, the angel too close to the sun.
I became the other thing, embracing the part of me
You never found, and in the miniature wilderness
Of diminished homes, I took a soundless wife,
And became the thing you neither touched nor saw.