The Beating Breasts Of Waves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Beating Breasts Of Waves

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Molded to those lips of cannons,
The green airplanes fold up and go to sleep
Long after the absences of chirruping tourisms:
When the night flowers bloom
Their milky lactates, mimicking the stolen
Architectures of moonrises-
And across the ocean there is only absences
All together between the beating breasts of waves.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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