The Dry Indoors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Imperfect as my insincerity- soft nimbus whispered or
Blown across the shell,
Lost in her childhood, like the kittens in the rattlesnake’s
Belly,
And we growing deeper into these woods, listening
To the ancient shells of conquistadors singing,
As sunlight is braided through the open doors
Of lost pornographies-
And I think of her again, the day reawakening in new
Molestations, the cars driving out of doors:
The strange storms that spread over us, strangers-
Her lips of satin, of tranquility’s heresy:
How can I provide for her when it is raining upon my
Fire,
And all of the good merry weathers have all stood up,
Discontinuing their primeval love stories,
And tromping up the three stacked cinderblocks and back into
The dry indoors.