That No Man Can Touch Poem by Robert Rorabeck

We need to talk now and then lie down to
Rest,
While the shells in the road lie there like cenotaphs
Brushed by the cars:
After the fireworks have died, and the conquistadors,
And the brushes are stilled and away,
While the oranges globe the trees with the cats,
And other states proceed along the Atlantic;
And the forts in them hide their shows- if there are anymore
Conquistadors near here they no longer move,
Nor the blue cats across them.
Just the palm trees in their imperfect rows, implored by the
Remarks of the tide-
The gold buried in the nape of her neck after she was stolen
Away from me. Even though she was never even mine-
Resting in his bed and closing her eyes
And dreaming of summer in another country that my forefathers
Defeated,
That I have let so easily defeat me; and it comes to me in
The illusions of a movie theatre, as I send her flowers
And she has her lunch alone on the patio-
And the sun resounds in its basins that no man can touch.