Long Version Of The Truth Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If you know what you are, collect in my wishing
Wells, and hold up for dinner,
Run underneath the bellies of the cars and their
Starlets,
And come over for dinner with the ghosts in the band
Of death,
Because I have felt you here all in the empty parks,
And in between the stones of cemeteries,
And I have been in your back yard through the infinitely
Inclining caesuras that run up the spines of Angels
Whose liquor I have tasted,
Whose flowers I have smelled: and now it all seems like
A long version of the truth,
When all I wanted was to lay my thoughts in your bed
And be watered by your lips.