Like An Abandoned Infant Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Ships sail on my glass,
And I drink to them, and bring all of that
Weather to my lips;
The colors flush,
And I put fictional autobiographies into their still
Warm graves,
Right next door to where I’d like to run my finger-prints
Over your yet burgeoning crow’s feet,
Just as light polishes shadows upon fine silver wear:
I keep forgetting to buy a Frisbee and test it out
With my dog in the wide open bedrooms, the
Angelic stadiums we sometimes call pastures:
Where I dream of floating over your androgynous zones,
Like a wandering spore, gusting myself over your
Blushing shoulder blades, kicking my legs under your
Puffed up dress:
All of this just to blow out the candles on a birthday cake,
Three centuries of flickering sunlight and the bulb is dimming,
But not yet visibly. Very soon I will progress to the next
Stage, like Janus’ other face, return to the state where
You live and try to interest you without all my faculties,
As you embrace some other man’s light,
And bathe in it like a creature who enjoys the teeming life
In the highest surfaces of water without knowing any name
For it, dancing in your flagella and stringy threads,
Coming undone but
Making love for awhile filling in the footsteps of tourists
After the tide washes in:
All the while I will do this for you,
And place myself like the bluest crèche, like an abandoned
Infant, some holy b-stard
Red and weepy at your door.