Nothing To Her World Always Turning Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What is the girl I always think of doing-
I bet she does as she always does, so far sunny
From my glooming:
And I have won prizes today, and shaken
Hands with the really long haired contestants-
I have brought warm soup to the poor, and then
I have taken it away, because I figured I was
Hungry myself:
I have thought of words like spoiled beef and who
To feed it to but the sick muse-
In this world where it is impossible to close a thing
Because it is always so busy revolving,
The nursery of epitaphs and uncooked attempts;
I would just like to find her once and lie down beneath
Her frilly stems and sigh, and say almost nothing-
Because nothing I could say would be worth such an
Experience- All the wealth in a dropp of her shade,
And it would not be pornography to watch her
Breastfeeding;
Oh, but the things I seem to say just sort of happen,
And mean nothing to her world that is always turning.