The Loneliness Of The Brightest Daydream Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The day is doing what it does, no maybe
In its brightness, the sky a half an egg-shell
Nested in its orbit,
And the greater and lesser lights produce
To me those things which hurry in proximity
To the other and then away,
When sparing they sing, combatants those
Jubilant bodies, and yet so much is wasted,
Spilled from gossiping lips until contaminated:
And I sit here severed from all society,
For half a decade maybe longer, but do not
Mind, nor her, that the grass grows unattended,
Nor have I procured a profession to magnetize
Lips of painted gypsum, in all the varieties of
Chance; I have already spun my coins in the
Dark room, and those I have touched lay well-
Fed, as they should not remember. Their breathing
Is the earthy sound of hibernations, and when
They saunter off to drink, they are no longer wary,
For beneath all of this daylight there is a deeper spume
Which sates us, a well that springs unwary of the season:
Here, our ancestors unincarcerated in fluidity, swim
Just outside the brightness of our daydream,
And once the song birds are done matting,
And their empiricisms molt from us, awakening we
Will find that open bath where the bodies of possibly
Interlude, where fingers crease the constellations, and
Each voice is singing together all the loneliness of the
Brightest daydream, which finds me now still unopened,
Limbs draping the bedsprings, posing mudded philosophy
To the integrations of grass and weeds.