The Hazy Architectures Of A Weepy Chariot

If I compare my baby to the truancy of
Wonderfully weeded topiaries, I sometimes get
Confused with statuaries,
I may go out in the darkness and say nothing, but listen
To the traffic going back and forth like a gown on
The tresses,
Something half wedded underneath the alders, as if pulled
By the moon to gallivanting in very straight lines
Which is never any fun;
And I would have liked to say to her that I once thought her
Beautiful; and all of her smoky nights as beautiful as
A lazy blue ocean that I could never own;
And that was why I bought her flowers and she said I could
Never know what she was, or what I meant to her.
This was true and now it matters less than the most anonymous
Holiday,
So if I confuse her grottos with those of other women,
Like various species of butterfly dying into the armchairs of the
Forest,
What does it matter to me since she has not once seen the beautiful
Landscaping or heard the wonderful choruses
I have tried to put her into like the hazy architectures of
A weepy chariot that I naively hoped she might command.

by Robert Rorabeck

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