The Baby Blue Arrowheads Of So Many Tomorrows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Transoms of ekphrasis looking all right,
While the ripples of dynamite excite the alcohol in my body:
While I have been trying to spell
The four seasons while touching myself- and thus while the air-
Conditioning feels like an aboriginal spell
The school girls go lost under while crawling up
The bouldering hernias of
A witching mountain and forgot to tuck in like the precluding
Séances in the pinwheels of any old fireworks,
Like the deepening fjords that even then burn away-
The mud daubers lasting their beaks for the last escargot
Of the midgets of pollywogs- the earth shuddering in vibrancies
I cannot explain: an immaculate little girl smiling
With braces showing off the veins of her world;
As she slips away from the doctors office out of school for the first
Of any old times; right behind the ixoras, shooting off to
Make love, while the kids she often doesn’t love circle around
Her and the mosquitoes draw blood right form
The exhibits of her fornications; and the gold ripples like a weather
Vane, like the banners for the closets of a dictator- If she would
Only stop to wonder, he would have the face of her father
Who has bought for her everything- but now his nursery is master less:
The plumbago stick to her wrists like the needy syrups of toothing
Infants- the blueness of a sky that doesn’t know the words
To heel- and it all turns over, counting backwards, warmly like
A fire growing cool from its regrets, like a mobile of blue aero buses,
And washing machine trying to mend its own wounds
In the azure valleys cut through by the baby blue arrowheads of
So many tomorrows.