Sister Citrus Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sun-dusk, a cemetery viewed from a cold
Blind window,
Wire framed hutch where the headless chickens are
Falling in love;
But who will fall in love with them,
But the discombobulated, in lines of straight
Chock somnambulant,
Bent forks are just exhausted weeping girls
In butchered skirts:
Then, when its pure dark, I want to grow tall,
While children play games in the sand:
Reach up and pluck her from the blindness
She serves drinks in:
Imbibe her spirits myself until I cure my wounds, and
She grows out of me like unsure cybernetics,
Like dirty electricity from my tennis elbows;
And say there, sister citrus,
Isn’t it time you awakened- For the sun has stripped
Its plain bed again, the waves are unwrapping
The gorgeous presents-
And I am frying up some bacon.