These Sweetest Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alma, the planets move and the make love beneath their
Windows. As I know that you have made love, while my bowels move,
While other people get married and have sex;
And the wind breathes and evaporates, as if just for a second it knew:
Alma, I dream of you in the brashness of our habitats:
My lungs burn, and then by the deepest hours of the night my father shuffles
Off to buy produce:
He is like a balerina who can never believe who he likely was;
And what about your bosom, Sharon- my sick muse; isn’t the entire
World growing dark like the red lines around the scars of some tattoo:
And the city yearns for so many more fine young upstarts
To overturn and parlay:
The city yearns for the very essence of what I cannot say, while the moon
Looms, and the sky balloons and the house follows the housewife home
Like a faithful pet blowing up the entrails of its choicest of balloons;
While your daughter is getting ready to read her favorite-most of
Words,
Sharon; do you or don’t you read my poems: Erin says she reads my poems:
Maybe that is all that she is good for while the ethereal bodies loams,
And I have a sweet, sweet home;
And the answers happen outside the envelops of all of these sweetest and
Choicest an secular and insular of my poems.