To The Lips Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Someone snores and I’ve made a
God of tracks and transoms that no one will
Ever read,
And that is good because the candles and
Curves of Colorado
Are tight,
And you have to keep your eyes wide opened
All goddamanded night;
And whiskey is good,
And cats have nine lives, and her favorite color is
Blue as it begins to fade into her eyes,
And the words sing atop of tilted flowers
And bird baths,
And the garden is homeless in a penumbra of incredible
Pestilence:
And I love her and want to live with her in an overgrown
House in Saint Augustine,
But instead I am selling these things for my father,
Waiting for the beautiful wings of whatever happenstance to
Come singing around once again,
But the eyes of incredible alligators never falter
Once again the sweet perfume of the airtight vision,
Like the legs of stewardesses making their arcs and swings
Over the crenulated Atlantics,
Plurals that have no reason, like all the animals who have
Died giving their bodies and their sexes,
Equally to the lips who are in stores,
Who wake up without wonder,
And who cannot breathe.