The Beautiful Imperfection Of Eons Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Somewhere there is a killer dying
For better words than these,
And new people are coming home to the
Country’s bread basket,
All warm and having eaten plenty:
I imagine what it is to feel a kiss between them,
To become better occupied than I am now.
Now I am a galaxy of scars and have been this
Way for so many years:
Each year a new scar, and a year to fade:
A scar after that, deliveries to make to strange houses
On my bicycle
In the molecule of a wave or all out:
The songs which resonate over houses, the pirates
Laughing on the sea,
The mermaid listing busty about their prow, addicted
To the rum they pour dripping down her body,
Dripping down:
Her children squelcher from the salt water milk;
She pools them into grottos and gives them lesson
In coral chalk. Over half of them glow,
And after some time she sends them to strange colleges
Where they don’t belong,
Where they are made fun of by people beneath them;
I watch them from a crèche tossed by an inconsequential
Breast stroke into the spattered trees:
I love how they swim when they walk,
How they have hidden teal scales beneath their blouses;
Or when I eat them out my brain grows by new gigantisms,
And I learn Latin in a tick. I finish everything
Twain ever wrote, and laugh at most of it; but by morning
They have left off on a sea-horse or a scarlet anemone,
Leaving me nothing but a pearl, the beautiful imperfection
Of eons like a marble on my desk.
I now carry it around with me for good luck,
And place it under my tongue to put them back there,
Lapping lapiz lazuli eyes that know everything the
Sea has told them,
But have forgotten everything about me, for they have gone
Back into her on a whim;
The caesuras dance in darkening swells
Beyond the dunes I get stuck in, and park for hours,
Trying to decide if I shouldn’t call,
But they are so far lost now into another more certain song.