To Be In Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Everything else inside of us seems to be counting
The numbers that pull off the same way that unmentionable
Serpents shed their skin:
And I am doing this again, again, because I have become
Unmentionably lost:
I exist in the same semipermiable strata of the pornographic
Memories as the conquistadors who became so quilled with
Arrows in the Floridian sand dunes,
That they had to stop for a dinner of themselves:
And so the buses whir for me, all less shad, all bright blue
And yellow,
Like flowers too big for corsages for submarines:
While the tracks that the Indians left behind are too famished to remember,
While your children are too beautiful to be forgotten,
Alma- and even though all of your world is so strange to me,
My heart hunts for you through the quietness of these concrete
Slopes which seem to come so easily,
While the liquor emolliates my skin, while I am at a loss for any other
Words or numbers,
Save for you name, and that we found each other all too suddenly
And all too same, on this peninsula on this planet and all the same:
Even if you don’t care to love me, I am the fool that you can
Blame:
You can squat and piss over my unmentionable grave in the concrete
Shadows of a sieve,
And we will carry on apart like the strata of two species born to
Far away from each other to ever be together, but know, at last,
That they were always meant to be in love.