The Lips To Spell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I will put a place on my body and then
I will die—mouthing off
Eventually to the full moons of the estuaries
That eventually have to move away—
And I cannot hold a grudge—
And I am moving slowly—
And the place is a slow dream—but in it all nine
Children of the dragon and the places
And the gardens where I will
Certainly be married-
Into the quiet places of the stewardesses—
Into the quieted places of our times—
And then an echo: just an echo of
A dime or a penny falling down into the fallacious
Lips of a wishing will already over-spilled
With so many things—
The trinkets of the - and the souls we
Couldn't sell—as we left all of our coins into summer—
As we've been spilling away our memories,
Locked up in prison—
And into another harmony that pretends to be so
Well—through the bastard diseases the wickedest of
Airplanes—
Apostrophes and commas and all of the misplaced
Conundrums
That our English teachers had to grow the lips to spell.