Prime Numbers In The Elbows Of Her Gardens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

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