Books Of History Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She had a silver moon cusped in her bosom,
Like a second hand trinket traded
At the flea market:
Or was it blue. I meant to ask her,
But she wouldn’t talk to me,
How she rippled in the waves the baseball
Players and giants wept for her:
The basins they watch her in, her nudity
An insouciant television show which just ripples:
And I see her from outside the window,
The curtains blowing like negligee.
And I am out on that yard, but I don’t belong,
And I cannot hear her speaking,
But her lips move with the homeopathy of
Shrunken mollusks, move like the whispered thoughts
Of gravity: I could knock on her door,
But not enter there, her home the shell which clouds
The bay where the conquistadors disappeared
From the books of history.