Something Vacillating Just Out Of The Four Corners Of Their Sight Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Broken short haired girls I have
Heard
Crying their romances above tree line,
Later in the innings of the third,
Crippled birds-
Downed power lines;
And I am doing my best to approach but
Not frightening,
Bringing them cheap wines,
Hoping to smell their breaths;
And everything I am doing is not
Right;
Their husbands are coming home later
On with banquets
And expectations of the fulfillment of
Their needs;
Maybe they fell from the wings of airplanes
Or ceiling fans;
Maybe they dusted from the Oort Cloud,
Hypothetical dance hall girls;
I have lived around them, their floors I’ve shined,
And carpets cleaned,
I waltzed a mean waltz in college around them,
Sometimes even fetched their eyes
With the lanky curvature of my unpossessive form;
But I am to be to them this night as
With any other,
Cavalier but esoteric, something vacillating
Just out of the four corners of their sight;
So that I might reach them before the hale storm,
Because the car pools in,
It his him who they have certainly heard,
The beefy lipped operas out amidst tilted blue cactus,
His footsteps all but knowledge fully;
The snake he enters and shakes the tree;
And they dive headily, streamlined plastics, the
Curvatures of Spain- waters dimpling that porcelain,
Freckled and forgetful;
And I stand outside of their play bequeathing none of
Their domestic light,
Until I tend to recede backwards though
Each blade in the matted field.