The Sunken Barbarians Poem by Robert Rorabeck

See what happens when we drink:
Lonely occultish memory, green locks swaying
As the kelp,
Selky-ish heads persuaded against the pylons:
Lapsing upon the breathings of the sea.
Our heads are persuaded against the pylons
And for a little while, a few feet beneath
The water, we learn how to pray:
Senses bleeding into the beautiful emeralds,
Waltzed into the jewelry shops where
We find it hard to breathe—
I think of you for a little while as the sea finds
Her fancies in her caracoles—
Maybe she thinks she is putting on a ballet:
Foaming dancers who know their children
For just as long as we do, broken apart
Towards the partitions of the breathing world:
And we thank our little gods,
Nymphs who jettison their children in spumes
Of dew-drop ether:
They are gone before your lovers turn over—
As they give a sideways kiss to the Neanderthals
And the sunken barbarians,
Epitaphs with bouquets of swords in hand,
Offerings of an almost forgotten honor to a sideways
turning world.