Robert Rorabeck - Sepia's Driveway

Love me with no cause, for I am no longer
Beautiful, but bloody bone,
And hung-over for you, rasping,
And make my home leaping between the waves;
They store me in the tumult and wife beating of
The thunderstorm,
Where I kiss the salt-tears madly, pretend
That my tongue touches her nocturnal orchids,
In a meaty garden- Thus a fist;
Each fish and race-horse swirls in the competition,
Where they conjoin in the eddies,
Scaled and antique, a barebacked parade:
Listen to us hunger,
Paradoxically the aging authors grow corpulent
And tentacled, their lights dim, they try their
Service in the insouciant light of staged photographs,
But they cannot escape the closing curtain,
The red satin and her mistresses, the line of
Felted curves, the tasseled dancing;
But they loved her as they could, and saw her in the
Rainstorm galloping,
And looked upon her madly, and wrote upon
Her as they could, tattooing her broken arms with
Their needles, and bouquets of infinite recesses:
Now they drive home lonely, passing over the graying
Archipelagos, receding back into sepia’s driveway,
Lulled, and lulled, and slowly formed into the mottled
Limestone which expands beneath them like hungry cavities,
And secrets where the waves lay,
Lapping, lapping.

Robert Rorabeck

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sepia-s-driveway/