The Very Picture Of The Story I Sing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The horse lays prone before its mountain:
You see they are in love, and she is praying;
Or in the least the horse is in love
And born many foals, at least four;
And the rabbits are in their narrow caves,
They have shut the door
And gone deeper into the ruby red burrows of churches
Dressed in their pinafores;
And you don’t have to believe me, because I have nothing
Left to prove:
I have delivered all of my Christmas trees,
I have swung with Kelly on the swings after the seventh
Evening of the day;
And now I am telling my story to shadows in Crepuscule,
Shadows who could be anything, but not you;
And, back to where we was, at least the horse was in love:
The mountain lion as teal as a tennis court
Melted from its tree of wisdom,
The tree of bitter star fruit, the tree of what was;
And this is the still life of dying life:
This is a rest stop in the gloom: This is where you are sleeping,
Kelly, in the doublewide of your epitaphs:
You might as well be in the everglades-
The two lovers are perpetually enslaved, but I am constantly unsure
Of their sexes;
Only that the mountain lion is the victor:
He is biting the summit of her throat, as I took you into my world
Today;
Like a blue vampire taking advantage of the virgin mother in
Pieta:
She bending down to nourish such a blooming sacrifice,
And this is, at least, the very picture of the story I sing for you.