What Must Bloom On A Cadaver Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What strange hope this fettering tool
Which gives me to breathe each morning and at
Dusk,
And puts this elongated mammal into its familiar
Occupancies, sets me out like a string of pearls
Tossed in the underhoof sundown;
What I might call form, the reckless spume scattered
Around the ankles of a morgue-ish orchard-
These lines I cut less expensive than a thief,
To make what estuary you might find at a fieldtrip of
Kindergarten, the shoals for Easter eggs and Spanish
Muses with an entire nursery lining up for refreshment
From your sore and bleeding venders:
I would give this to you in a gunpowder bouquet,
I would orchestrate my pastimes for you into a routine
You could feel, that would blend us into a second class
Immortality of policemen and bar maids,
If you only turned once again from looking at your marriage
Tomb, and see that I have flooded the spaces unrecognized
By your senses with the beasts I have torn right out of
My self and captured, and made into a three ring mythology
For you, something once thought feral by now
Hypnotized and wishing to swing before you underneath
The penumbra of the moons tent, wouldn’t you realize
How long and horribly I have thought of you; and how
Even if you fell in love with me, how inexorable all my
Spent fluids and ink are- See how I have made myself into
An utter failure alone and roomy- Press your erogenous
Vitalities to my fading dimples, and find out what must bloom
On a cadaver.