Wounds Of Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Because there is nothing under the sad moon,
I keep singing to you from the inconsiderable house atop the hill;
My tears are falling where there use to grow
A thicket of anemones,
And a contradictory sea, in love with the motionless shift;
The swathing ocean between our eyes, the striped lighthouses
Of the burning soul;

Now how the night is void, zeroed into extinction of lesser mammals:
The lions are loosed and eating the fish
Jerked onto the naked rocks- The boys with manes and footballs,
Who sink inebriated rhymes into your throat;
The way your cadaver swoons instructing the masculine
Students of your newly surreptitious science;

So swiftly the un-cherished tide recedes,
Taking away her silken tresses, and her nubile offerings;
She looked away, scattered in a nebula attached like afterbirth
To the fiery meadows; You strolled away with the dawn,
The perfectly unrepentant haze,
The bell ringing class like the homicide of desperate regrets;

And the hung-over ghosts receded into the park,
Shelled inside the heart of spiked palms,
Fearing your unshared glow....