The Brownness Of His Unwise Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My body does not know the places that your body rests:
The wishing wells, the oasis’s-
When you lay down beside him- Alma, what is it that you know:
How has it become official:
When it rains,
Or when there is a forest fire, and all of your rabbits disappear:
And yet the very next day you go shopping,
And lay your whispers to my ear- in a fieldtrip that you will
Never admit to,
Just as you wont admit to my own scars- sometimes I have followed
After you into churches you had already committed to going away
From:
But I found you in the dismissive caesuras- and in the ill perfections
Of the murals above your roof
Where I once slept for two hours four or five months ago:
And then had to come down
And walk back home- and now I wonder what betides you,
Beside the firelight of your television, and your room:
How the keen bodies will rush beside you tonight, cooing into
Your languishing maelstrom,
Brindled from the kilns you have more than once let me know:
And even if it has happened as many times as to take up all of
The birthdays of my years,
We still must live forever across the borders of our tongues- except
That I have tasted yours- and though without wholly understanding,
Have enjoyed as often as the cadaverous sailor
Slips away full heartedly into the brownness of his unwise sea.