While It Moves Away Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mitts of hidden roses to play baseball,
Oracular hollows in the woods for the eyes of
Boyfriends to see your steaming fires,
Your hair as black as frightened octopus,
The liquors of your amber skin,
Diana- The park of your natural beauty is filled
With the molar pillars that can have no rest-
Truants are always smoking and ejaculating within
The bunches of your spikenard midst;
And you came to the fruiteria on Saturday when it
Was spitting raining, with your boyfriend,
And asked for me, only you called me guapo hombre,
Your handsome man- Not even my own mother
Would believe your kindness; and how am I to love
You tomorrow after tonight I have pitifully described your
Parks and estuaries and your boyfriend who flits there
The like king of your huckleberries,
When this is a dream that will be hung-over when the liquor
Is finished; and when I see you tomorrow I want to give
You all the flowers we sell,
While the traffic runs so prettily; it runs on and on,
But how should your body then move when it realizes how
It fully occupies the body of my hapless souls-
Will it be just as migratory as a gallery as I already know:
Will you take all the roses that I know to give you:
On its pretty fine-ass wheels, will it moves away with my soul….