These Wildish And Feral Gifts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The sun moves around like fingers knuckling these cornices
OF rubbed down teak:
And she has been my forever constant, by whose vacant lips I pass
The week;
And I move with the traffic that I wish somehow could be
Undressed,
The way her eyes take off my troubles, and I smell her coming nearer
My home as her corneas engorge like the hearts of
A tomb:
They are twins, like night in both hemispheres,
And her lips are wet and open like a grave inviting in the hungry
Pistils of these wildish and feral gifts.