Muse Of Both Hemispheres Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Look at the way the verdant winnows the light,
And there in the sheaths of stems, in the throbbing photosynthesis,
I suppose, is the essence of the dreamer’s home:

There out in any yard for daylight’s piece, one may rest
His fatty rump in so many kingdoms of ants in long wars,
See very little of such places, and pretend enlightenment.

I do this for my ethereal palaver, for what strangeness to
Speak to a woman I have never seen, what harrowing dysfunction
To kiss her this way, the tiny epitaphs I give to her leaping over states.

She must not suppose she is real, for self reflection does not occur
To the fleeting happenings of her armada, her body of oils and salts,
Perms and periods, and the junctions of her architectures

Are very swift things stationed in their cupboards, unrealized
Utensils for defense and claret murder, but really just little things
Like the stems of light outside, the roots the shadows I have to discover,

But in doing so would kill the beauty.