Their Purple Canals Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Juvenile loves who’ve grayed,
Shooting at a turtle in the river in the morning of a blue
Trail,
The bicycles riding together as precious as our two hearts
Overlapping like how waves disappear
Traveling up the bottleneck of a grotto; and I have found you,
And felt you in the few ways that I know,
Alma, and give over to you entirely all of my failing instruments
Like uncut gems gossiping in the wound of a tree
The otters peruse with salty mouths from all of the sea life
They’ve been at feeding,
And of the mermaids they’ve been at kissing, skipping school,
And laying on their oily backs in the favorite torpidities of
Their purple canals.