Tumbling through the orchard’s sea:
Tumbling, tumbling tumbler;
Now you can’t say what I am looking for-
That I am looking for her who the mountains
Cry for-
Who they en crèche,
Engorged plum-colored, yes;
And the tourists come down long skied off their
Mountainous and acanthine esplanades,
And imbibe her spirits if they know what’s good
For them
And I want beer, and I want wine for my long haired
Honey- Oh, she is fine-
And I drink cheap, cheap wine,
And look into the sky, and curse airplanes-
Why- Why- That I should drink alone at night,
And kiss the Spanish Conquistador;
It is not right:
That I am scarred, and drunk, and defeated onto the
Floorboards of insouciant traffic and their haunts:
And I want to live forever,
And maybe I should- Or maybe not:
And the tent is breathing slight jazz,
And I really need my fallow faun:
My pallid doe, and if I was Don
John wouldn’t I already have her opal
Orchards picked and plunder and blinking in my
Suburban lawn.
Robert Rorabeck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tumbling-tumbling-tumbler/
