These Quiet Lovers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How awful I should appear,
If I tried to sing like Lorca, hidden child
Of a civil war, buried somewhere through
The braided opals of Spain I went through
As a child. I got a tattoo in Barcelona
That has faded, and so many scars; they too
Begin to fade, but I keep them still, like
The blue tenements of lonely citizens;
And the crickets whose movements serenade
As expectantly as every tide; like the flow of
Blood, and the raise of fluid when two hearts of
A species enjoin in furtive romancing:
I should go that way while they are asleep,
My footsteps clapping expectantly as her scents
Waif like a heliotrope orchard, where carts rest
Unmanned and torpid, and she lays open chested
And ghostly, bosom heaving beneath the scented
Orbs- If I should find her, and lay there beneath
The leaves the moon has painted, so closely that
Our senses combine and swim in a vacated theatre,
Where our limbs may enjoy the oppositions
Like thespians rehearsing unlit before an audience
As private as those who gather under the pool of
These quiet lovers.