Perspective Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Learning the imperfections of my desire:
I go again, the weapon of a game in my hands- taking swings with
Regression- taking words as they come like
Raindrops, savage tears, vanishing children on milk cartons that
The hypnotized glass blowers over use:
Drunken, and carrying on over each new succession of the perfectly bluing
Hills, so that by morning they have new marriages
And new children;
And they step outside into the tiny front yard where all of the out of
Work kidnappers are having a street festival:
And the overeager serpent is up in his citrus tree, curled there and talking
To whatever pretty girls still survive who have yet to taste him;
But traveling around still further, past the diminutive slayings
The dogs have overdone to the rabbits in the echinopsis of the rock
Gardens over night: and there to the grottos of the car port,
Where whatever goddess that was always promised is still there, like
The sweet nectar of oasis bare breasted behind the electric semen of
A naked extension chord, practicing a housewife’s pieta before the
Washing machine,
As the conquistadors who havent yet eaten themselves lay around like
Cenotaphs and spent bottle rockets in the backyard, adding perspective
To her beauty.