This Is My Dying Bliss Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The day on the river chokes of sun-
Days of family, days of gun:
I have been so lost into the brighter splinters
Of a forest fire that doesn’t ignite:
I fill like I am encircle at a table of absent knights,
Or the adjectives they use to describe themselves;
That I should revert again to calling out the
Christian names of my one or two muses,
Like a sudden spelling bee cast out amidst
The key dear of the mangroves;
And maybe that’s what Sharon thinks it means as far as
Being alive,
But I prefer Disney World, the plastic stilettos of her
Eyes,
Because I am dying, dying into the traffics of the real world,
Dying with my need,
With my hands outstretched for something they should
Be feeding,
And there is nothing more terribly sweet than this:
I am dying,
And this is my dying bliss.