To Your Divine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I drink so much it is as if you are standing
Righteous before me,
Pushing your trams and your coffins,
Hawking your wears and jingling.
The child diadems your hip
And you are more verdant that any forest now
Extinct,
And make for good reason for the unnecessary ness
Of decrying whatever animals need never
To exist:
Only you are here, one deity arisen out of a species
Of titted sex;
And your tiny vestibule rises in the north like
A fox-grape monument that traffic turns
Toward,
As if hearing a perfume; and these words are the
Barn door left open,
As the windmill squeaks protesting the quixotic
Nights,
And now the cliffs are real and moonlit,
Circled by the ghosts of gentlemanly birds,
And the highway is so long outside your door,
But you can just stand beside it and it
Fades away.
Then the snow comes and takes up the place,
And adds to your divine,
And multiplies you in my mind.