My Very Own Heart Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The belly of a cathedral hung over with the winos of
My hermitage:
Remembering the last cause of the knights to crusade, and
Sauntering into exhaustion,
To bed with harlots, to get tattoos somewhere no descript
Along the greasy road:
The toads were ululating, transforming the tadpoles
From the early breakfast of blue gills:
The little girls across the canal were paper, paper,
With wet lips, with eyes of grapes stolen from foxes,
Tantalizing like my muses from Mexico-
Airplanes were berets in their hair.
Their hair was the sugarcane emolliate- the scars on her
Brown cheeks
The panthers and key deer in a zoetrope that stole my very own
Heart.