The Cursory Beauty Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have those dreams too- Of dancing with a
Gun atop of my head
In the foreground of the dry husk of a lighthouse,
Like a young wife who has given up in her
Prime,
And let in other wolves: you know their types;
And letting the forest walk closer
All filled with the gossip of carnivorous flowers
And the matinees of
Their rosy carnage who grow full blown like overweight
Corsages right through the cannibalistic pyramids
Piled up of
Conquistadors, in a cenotaph of far away loved one
Right there before the endearing blue eyes of the lion
Who has crossed so many rivers to
See the final sights of these men’s last inclinations;
While I have worked so many graveyard shifts,
And though of you and written you down through similar
Broadsides,
While she crawls into bed beside him, just like another
Wave;
And they disappear altogether with the cursory beauty
That almost would have never been written of.