Into The Rivers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mother of a yellow wolf—This is my art,
Sinking beneath the sunshine of a sailboat—
The tourists don’t
See you—What lines you have gone
Through the trigonometry of any horizon:
The apple falls, consumed,
And her bedroom she looks up to the ceiling
Fan, fancying pilots in their acrobatic
Delusions—and everything else is a pulse—
A way to behave which I cannot describe:
The knights have crossed the river on their
Quest, and you are still in college
Casting your dimensions into the rivers from
Which I have long since vanished.