The Wishes Of The Lighthouse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In these last hours while the flowers enfold, or in fact
They die into new bodies by morning,
You lay down with him, though tell me that you love me:
You’ve had two children from his loins fitted like fireworks
Or paper craft into yours,
Like airplanes who conjoin in the outposts of Titans
Atop of mountains in their beds of corporeal love
Above the universities
Into which you never strove; and I get a good look out at you
By drinking my bottle every day, by which I sing my songs of
The grave;
And everything falls down a little more: the trucks coming in
The middle of the night down the wrong way of a one way street:
And you make love to him:
You have his initial on your left hand, where you now wear
My ring: and I think of, Alma, and try not to drown, hoping in my
Last desperate throws to see the wishes of the lighthouse
As I strive to sing.