The Way You Kiss Yourself Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Even now all the night shines, and you don’t call me:
These are my silly wishes to world that knows nothing at all of
Them,
These are the most silent of prayers, the candles inside their
Bushels,
Placed to the lips of the grotto where I can here you
Basking,
And doing the laundry, or making your love to your mother
Inside the rose bushes:
And I will wait for you until I starve, Alma.
As all of my art resounds like a single firecracker in the air,
And then comes down in no wind at all over a baseball diamond
Naked of players,
As the world turns its dials by degrees, and the wind chimes smother
The butterflies, the mountains cry their cricks,
And the airplanes kick the dust of the skies:
I don’t know anymore, any more beautiful words for you,
And I seem to crest like the fire on a wave just as your brown eyes
Are coming up and are about to see:
The way you kiss yourself before them and then look away
Infinitely.