Rolling Their Tomboys Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All stuck up in a headdress single file,
The planes and sensations of a great long while:
Burning condemnations
Through the planes of blue sensation,
Until the ripe old gardens grew and knew for awhile
What they were supposed to know:
The lucky rabbits in the fieldtrips of echinopsis,
Making great time and beating
The card games through the white washed gardens
Diademed by the cenotaphs of conquistadors,
Whose bright light shone up from the
Spit shined floors,
And seemed to recall just when the jungles were young,
And smoking their pluraled sensations of
The smokescreen of highways, leaping like rider less
Saddles up through their byways
Like smoking guns,
And then it seemed as if the ripe was ready to be pulled
Down,
Just as when she knocked on my door, I took her to the
Bedroom, and ungowned her gown;
So from my tongue her fever spread all the way down
Her brown rivers rolling their tomboys across my
Cerulean bed.