The Mortal's Flame Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Mortal's Flame



I’ve had a dream of you the final summer
Of my morning’s sleep,
A denouement to the deeper aberrations which
Exeunt from the surface of my vision
Upon awakening,
The echoes of a dancer’s feet now refashioned
For the rebuttals of the courtyard. Authors
Die and wilt, and you read Stephen King in Middle-
School, though I can’t imagine you do anymore,
Or how you came to visit me and cheer up the side
Of my face when I wasn’t sleeping in David’s
Van during home room studies,
The little publications that you gave,
This journalism you gave up for
Even greater recognitions, and in my
Dream I bought you a sequined dress so petit I must
Have mistaken you for a doll, and the careening world
An exhibit in glass, but things graduate so rapidly
Even from my indecision,
Your affections gave way to wilt and dismissal,
Volunteered for the continents of other avenues,
And the last time I saw you, you were too busy riding
Your bicycle to a moot courtroom, so you only waved
To those oddities which pass away into inevitability:
But this morning we kissed, and it was the last thing
I did before waking, and beginning my fieldwork,
The steady drudgery of my muddy obsessions,
But wondering I followed you through the mountains and
Found you echoing with another’s name;
So quickly and impressive people do their metamorphosis,
And in rich houses spread their wings,
And even now your are driving between sky-scrapers
Air-conditioned; If I care to sing of you, I will do it here
And write these little imbecilic flings,
Here let them blow out the window into the mortal's flame,
And catch you again tonight and tug you in dances
Across the red courtyard where the cicadas are newly undressed.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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