Prime Numbers in the Elbows of Her Gardens

All of the busied happiness tries to pretend there <br />Reptiles <br />Whist across of all of the unhappied wishing wells <br />Shows the visages of presidents <br />Into the knighted dreams of Miami where America <br />Doesn't belong anyways— <br />Whist my legs echo like crickets for all of the busied <br />Romances of airplanes—anyways— <br />While then, of course, all of those collected nights <br />Become so utterly unromantic— <br />And yet the commercial airplanes drool and drool <br />Like hummingbirds whist you remember where <br />You kept your spot— <br />As the bed creeps along by itself—and no longer <br />Any of the busied perfumes are collected from <br />The apiaries—as if I would make love <br />To freshman or someone else underneath that <br />Un busied—art—underneath the moon or <br />Anywhere—anywhere— <br />Whilst I am getting older and older— <br />Now a king of his un busied letters—waiting for the <br />Hurricanes of wherever it was to unfold and for <br />The rest of its heavens to so eagerly be <br />Found out-<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prime-numbers-in-the-elbows-of-her-gardens/