Their Makings Of Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cane fires from Barbados burn me,
Back from the movies-
Waiting to fall asleep in a house that moves,
Like airplane gibberish overhead-
Long stanzas that aren’t yet dry:
Her eyes are blue birds only for seconds;
They are indescribable, but sometimes written of
By Baudeliare:
Drunkenly he saw her in one of her bosomy stages
Of evaporation smoking out of the chimney of
A incandescent bar;
Maybe there were pirates coming in off the Sea of
France,
All giddy and ambidextrous at the thought of taking her.
They’d left their torn ship behind, auburn,
Its throat cut on the prettiest reddest of corals,
And water snakes were coming through,
But they didn’t have the time, being stuck in the middle
Of the canal as they were:
Here body was a hermited mirage vacillating at the edge
Of that perlescent lake;
And even as they came in, I waited for her, and attended
To her orchids while children whilst I listen to
Their makings of love.