The Rhythms Of Your Very First And Last Loves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t want to have to give you up:
The night is still on fire, the animals are still running like
A fable of a bad cartoon:
The windows just get higher until they get nose bleeds over
The green fields in the memories of my first
Masturbations
Over which the ceiling fans turn remembering the zoetropes of
Paper airplanes,
And calling up all of the missing paths like the mining of
Ants and ant lions in the metamorphoses of the Colorado
Rockies;
Until all of the sky is a bath over your brown body, as on your
Elbows run its brown cadences,
And the heartbeats stop and start to the rhythms of your very first
And last loves.