The Time In The World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

So many lives given over to benediction,
Many amputees pressing young lipped over the soda
Fountains,
And the forts rise up clapping for fireworks,
Walls of coquina and rum, with tongues of sundials pulled
From the sea hoary cliffs perpetually
For young lovers as gifts who just didn’t care
Stone flower clocks
Broken promises that cannot be Indian given;
But I still love the Orpheus sun of underground heaven:
What you keep like pies under the sheets, when you wake up
And the tide has you enraptured within its briny monopoly,
And you can come out and yawn like a growing cross:
You can toss your hands up and love, Erin, toss your hands up
And love because the world is still ungodly perfect for you.
You have a new car and all the roads,
Swift amusement to the sea you can walk upon anyways
With the sun going down. The mailboxes are panting and I miss
My dogs, and we really miss you under the thumbs of pestilent
Stars, the science of their exhaling space:
They are always good at the perpetual chase; you know what it
Is good for, your foot on pure silver dispelling curses.
You never have to go to the library to find the immortality of my
Love, for it is forever happening perpetually on you
Like hungry magnets to your dense mercury curved to perfection
And given all the time in the world.