The Swing Of Priestly Censers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pretty though miss numbered, and taking itself away
At the arcs
To the swing of priestly censers- another genii’s bottle
Opens and loses its senses to the
Jasmines of the forest
As at first a steamboat passes by and then a
Brontosaurus:
And I say to the cursed day laborers up above
The tree lines in Colorado:
That this is my wedding, not my Mother’s,
And the lion’s mouth s yawning because
It is hungry underneath the comet’s, so someone
Ought to feed it:
But, other than that- I am ugly and disfigured,
But so are the busts from the ancients
And the pre-Socratics who somehow found out whatever
They could whilst the water level of the Mississippi
Changed and changed,
And I crossed the train tracks and crawled up onto
Your roof
And gave your kisses just as with the helicopters or
I did just whatever I could.